Chapter Text
Two months passed like the slow unfurling of a tide.
No crashing waves—just water learning how to be calm again.
Daniela wasn’t too sure what healing was supposed to feel like. But she thinks she’s getting there.
The kettle clicked off before she even remembered she’d turned it on. Dani poured the water into her chipped blue mug, watching the steam curl upward like it was in no rush to disappear. She wasn’t in much of a rush either. Not yet.
Her house was still and a little cool, the kind of stillness that makes you hear everything — the faint hum of the fridge, the groan of pipes settling, a lone pigeon cooing on the windowsill. She tucked her bare feet under her on the couch and took the first sip of coffee. Bitter, just how she liked it.
On the low table in front of her sat a small terracotta pot with what should have been a basil plant. Instead, it was a stubborn cluster of green stems that refused to grow any higher than her knuckle. She reached over and touched one leaf, feeling the faintest give under her fingertip.
“You’re trying,” she murmured, more to herself than to the plant.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily. Eleven hours until the gallery opened its doors. Eleven hours until strangers would walk past the paintings she’d been staring at alone for months and decide whether or not they were worth stopping for.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t think about it this morning. But of course she was thinking about it.
On the desk in the corner, her laptop was open to a playlist she’d been playing on loop all week. Just some low, wordless jazz. She padded over, hit play again, and let the warm, brassy hum fill the room.
She spent the next half hour in her usual morning rhythm. Rinsing out the mug, watering the stubborn basil, opening the curtains. Sunlight washed over the canvas she’d been meaning to finish. An abstract swirl of navy and deep green. For a second she thought about sitting down with her brushes, but something about today felt too fragile to risk frustration.
Instead, she picked up the stack of mail by the door. A few bills. A flyer for a furniture sale. A thin white envelope from the gallery confirming tonight’s schedule, which she didn’t open because she already knew it by heart.
Her phone buzzed once on the counter. A message in the group chat.
Lara: You alive or do we have to drag you to your own opening?
Dani smiled and typed back: Alive. For now.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Yoonchae: Bring your ass to the café later. The first coffee’s on the house. You’ll need the caffeine hit.
She almost typed I’m fine , but the truth was, she didn’t really want to be alone all day. She just wanted to make it to tonight without spiraling.
She set the phone down and glanced at the bookshelf by the window. Her eyes landed on a worn purple cover shoved between two art catalogues. The one she’d bought months ago from that little shop on Harbor Street. The one she hadn’t touched since.
Without fully deciding, she grabbed her jacket, slipped the book into her tote, and stepped outside.
The street outside was just waking up. A delivery truck rumbled past at the end of the block, tires hissing over damp asphalt. Somewhere, a bakery had just started its first batch of bread; the air carried that warm, yeasty promise that made you want to change your plans and wait by the door until it opened.
Dani adjusted the strap of her tote bag and started toward Harbor Street. It wasn’t far. A good fifteen minutes if you cut through the park, twenty if you took your time. And Dani decided she’d take her time.
The park was still slick from last night’s rain. The grass smelled sharp and green, and a thin mist hovered above the pond, curling at the edges like steam from her morning coffee. A man in a red windbreaker jogged past with his dog, the leash stretching between them in a lazy arc.
Dani stepped off the path for a moment, crouching to tie her shoelace. Her fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her jeans where the dew had kissed it.
She thought about tonight in fragments. The flashes of the gallery space, her paintings hanging under too-bright lights, conversations with strangers whose faces would blur by the end of the night. The thought knotted something low in her stomach.
A tram rattled by on the far side of the park, its windows flashing brief, moving portraits of people on their own mornings. She wondered, as she always did, what it would be like to step onto one without a plan and let it take her anywhere.
Leaving the park, she followed the narrow street lined with thrift shops and tiny cafés with chalkboard menus propped outside. A pair of college students sat at one table, notebooks open between them, coffee cooling at their elbows. An elderly man in a flat cap sat at another, holding his cup in both hands like it was the only thing keeping him warm.
The buildings began to change as she neared the bookshop. There stood brick instead of concrete, painted window frames instead of aluminum. The air smelled faintly of salt now, the sea close enough to taste if the wind shifted.
She slowed as she passed a familiar storefront. A secondhand clothing shop where she’d once found a ridiculous, oversized sweater she wore for years before it unraveled at the cuffs. The display window now held a mannequin in a sundress far too optimistic for the weather.
She reached into her tote, feeling the corner of the paperback against her fingers. The cover was soft from handling, the pages swollen slightly at the edges. It wasn’t a rare book, or particularly valuable, but it was hers and had been hers for some time now. The idea of parting with it felt strangely ceremonial.
When the bell above the bookstore door finally jingled, the sound hit her with a wave of memory.
The shop was exactly as she remembered. Narrow aisles, low wooden shelves, and that warm, dusty smell that seemed baked into the floorboards. A small radio played something tinny and old-fashioned in the corner.
And behind the counter, wiping down a stack of recently acquired hardcovers, was Charlie.
He looked up, blinking once before his mouth curved into a slow, familiar grin. “Well, look who it is. Harbor Street’s long-lost regular.”
Dani laughed under her breath, letting the door swing shut behind her. “I’m not that long-lost.”
Charlie leaned his elbows on the counter, giving her the same curious once-over he’d done the very first time she stepped into this shop years ago. “Last time you were here, my old intern was still messing up the shelving system. Alphabetized fiction by first name . Took me weeks to fix. That was… what, quite a few months ago?”
“Six and a half,” Dani said automatically. “But yeah. Feels longer.”
“Six and a half months without a single visit,” he repeated, shaking his head as if it were a crime. “I’m not sure whether to welcome you back or charge you late fees.”
She smiled faintly, letting her eyes roam the narrow aisles. She gripped the anchor around her neck subconsciously.
The shop was still the same—the same creak in the floor near the history section, the same gold waving cat figurine on the counter, the same cinnamon smell from whatever tea Charlie always seemed to forget halfway through.
Only difference was the window display. The last time Dani had been, it had been a messy stack of poetry books, now it was a carefully arranged tower of hardcovers framed by pressed flowers in glass frames.
“You look lighter,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “What?”
“I mean, you used to come in here and… I don’t know. You’d always be carrying something heavy. Not in your hands—” he tapped his own chest, “—here. And I don’t see it as much anymore. Feels like you set something down.”
Dani tilted her head, half a smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe I did. Or maybe I just got better at hiding it.”
Charlie’s answering smile was small, but sure. “Either way, it suits you.”
He slid the cloth he’d been using to wipe down the counter to the side. “So… still painting?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Actually—” She hesitated for a moment, then slung her tote onto the counter and dug out her phone. “I’ve got a gallery opening tonight. First one in years. First actual show, actually. With important people and stuff”
His eyebrows lifted. “Daniela. That’s incredible.”
“It’s terrifying,” she said, grinning anyway. “But… yeah. It’s good.”
“It’s an open show?”
She shrugged, but there was a spark in her eyes. “If you’re free. Six o’clock, The Street Gallery. You can tell me which pieces are pretentious.”
“I’d never,” he said, clutching his chest like she’d insulted him.
“You absolutely would.”
Charlie chuckled. “Alright, send me the details. I’ll bring some comments or a really nice bottle of wine—dealer’s choice.”
“Girl— comments . Definitely comments,” she decided instantly. “Less risk of me downing the wine out of nerves before the event even starts.”
He gave her a look. “You’d drink it straight from the bottle, too.”
“I would not,” she said, feigning offense. “I’d at least use a mug.”
They both laughed, and for a second it felt like no time had passed at all.
Charlie’s eyes dropped to the edge of the tote bag still on the counter. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Dani pulled out the worn paperback, brushing her thumb over the frayed corner. “Something I bought here years ago. Thought I’d bring it back—let it find someone new.”
He took it like it was fragile, flipping it open and scanning the pages. Her old notes were still in the margins, pencil lines under certain phrases. “You’re just giving it away?”
“Feels like the right time,” she said. “I don’t need it the way I used to.”
Charlie studied her face for a moment, then nodded. “That’s what I meant. You’re lighter.”
The words sank in differently this time—less like an observation, more like a small truth being set gently in her hands.
He turned, slipping the book into the “Staff Picks” shelf. “I’ll put it here. Someone’s gonna pick it up and think it was waiting for them.”
“I’d like that,” she said.
Charlie leaned against the counter again, softer now. “You know, I always figured you’d do something like this. Gallery shows, people lining up to see your work. You had that… I don’t know… stubborn focus. Like you couldn’t not make art.”
Dani smirked. “You also figured I’d be an insufferable recluse by now, remember?”
“That prediction still has a fifty-fifty chance.”
She shook her head, laughing. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He grinned, then glanced toward the door as the bell jingled and another customer stepped in.
Dani adjusted her tote. “Guess I should let you work.”
“See you tonight?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, stepping backward toward the door. “And… thanks. For the book thing. And for noticing.”
Charlie shrugged, but his smile lingered. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
When she stepped outside, the air felt a little warmer than when she came in—though maybe that was just her.
The café was already humming when Daniela arrived, the smell of roasted beans and something sweet from the oven curling into the air as she pushed open the door. She spotted her friends tucked in a corner booth—Lara already halfway through a slice of cake, Megan gesturing animatedly about something, Manon scrolling absently on her phone, and Yoonchae waving her over the moment she stepped inside.
“You’re late,” Lara teased as Dani slid in beside her. “We were about to order without you.”
“You say that every time,” Dani shot back, smiling as she pulled the menu closer though she already knew she’d end up with her usual.
The chatter picked up easily, a comforting rhythm she hadn’t realized she missed until now. Megan launched into a story about a runway where the model tripped over the sound system, Lara interrupted with a dramatic retelling of her neighbor’s dog escaping again, and Yoonchae kept nudging Dani every so often, filling her in on details whenever the conversation branched off too quickly.
Eventually, as their plates began to empty, the conversation shifted.
“So,” Manon said, leaning her chin on her palm, “big night later. You ready for it?”
Dani laughed softly, stirring the last of the ice in her glass. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Mostly just nervous.”
“You’ll be fine,” Megan said. “You’ve been living with paint on your hands for months. It’s about time the rest of the world sees what you’ve been hiding.”
“It’s not hiding,” Dani protested, though her voice carried no weight. She thought for a moment, then added quietly, “It’s more like… waiting until I could actually face it.”
There was a pause. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Lara reached for her fork again, then said, “Do you ever get tired of it? Painting?”
The question startled Dani, though she found herself answering without thinking. “Sometimes. But not in the way you’d think. It’s not the work I get tired of—it’s more like… I get tired of what I’m painting for. Like the pressure to make sense of things I don’t always understand yet.”
Her friends hummed in agreement. Manon muttered something about writing papers that sounded exactly like that, and everyone laughed.
“Still,” Yoonchae piped up, “don’t you think the best part is when it does make sense? When you finally get it down and you look at it and it feels… right?”
Dani smiled at her. “Yeah. That part’s worth everything.”
They let the moment hang before the subject drifted again. To food, to weekend plans, to teasing Lara for ordering another slice of cake.
Yoonchae chiming in with dry observations that sent everyone into fits. Manon animatedly described a podcast she’d been obsessed with lately, miming hand gestures big enough to draw a few amused stares from nearby tables.
“You should’ve seen it,” she said, wide-eyed. “The host completely lost track of the script. Like legit derailed. Total chaos. It reminded me of Megan at karaoke.”
“Excuse me?” Megan sputtered, nearly spilling her iced tea. “I’m a star at karaoke.”
“A star who forgets half the lyrics,” Yoonchae deadpanned.
“Creative liberty!” Megan shot back.
Even Dani found herself laughing, shoulders easing into the rhythm of the group. She didn’t have to explain herself here, didn’t have to overthink silence or fill in gaps. The words circled around, light and affectionate, the kind of conversation that felt less like catching up and more like slipping into something familiar.
At one point Lara leaned across her to steal a fry from Yoonchae’s plate, earning a halfhearted glare. Dani shook her head, amused, and felt something warm settle in her chest. Something steady, like gratitude. Not because the world had shifted, not because everything was fixed, but because this moment existed at all.
By the time their plates were cleared, Megan was already announcing that she’d be dragging them all to karaoke again soon. The chorus of groans and arguments followed them out onto the street, sunlight pooling brighter now as the hours edged toward afternoon.
The gallery opening was only a short while away.
By the time the afternoon settled into a soft gold, Dani was already dressed. Not extravagantly—she never liked to be—but the muted silk of her blouse caught the light when she moved, and the cheap anchor around her neck glimmered like a small, deliberate decision. She had done her hair with more care than usual, swept back in a way that kept the world from knowing how her hands had trembled.
The house was too still. She lingered on the porch steps, letting the late sun press warm against her skin. Across the street, a boy kicked a ball against the wall and chased it down. A neighbor watered her plants. Life moved on in unremarkable rhythm, and Dani inhaled it all like she might forget how to breathe once she stood inside the gallery later.
Her fingers toyed with the chain around her neck, restless, before she noticed it—before she felt it, really. The shift in air. The kind that used to announce storms rolling in, or a silence that was never truly empty.
She turned.
And Sophia was there. Not in the fragile, fading ways she had been before—no half-formed shadow, no blur in the corner of her eye. This time, she was whole. Steady. Sitting on the porch rail like it had always been hers, her hair swaying with the faint breeze, her eyes carrying both the weight of memory and the gentleness of someone letting go.
Dani’s throat closed, but she didn’t cry. Not tonight. Not for this.
“I thought—” she began, but stopped. Words felt clumsy, unnecessary.
Sophia tilted her head, the hint of a smile ghosting across her mouth. “You look ready.”
Dani let out a breath that trembled at the edges. “I’m not. Not really.”
“You are,” Sophia said softly. “You’ve been ready for a while. You just didn’t believe it yet.”
The porch creaked as Dani leaned forward, hands clasped tight between her knees. She searched Sophia’s face like she could memorize it all over again—every softness, every sharp line, every trace of the summer that had once felt infinite.
“I don’t want to forget you,” she admitted.
“You won’t.” Sophia’s voice was certain, gentle in its certainty.
Dani blinked hard, not against tears, but against the strange, tender ache of gratitude. Gratitude that she got this moment, even if it wasn’t real in the way she wished. Gratitude that loving Sophia had happened at all.
“You look beautiful,” Sophia commented. The words carried no ache, no tether. Just observation.
“Don’t say that. You’ll make me nervous before I even get there,” Dani tried to laugh, and she almost did.
For a long moment, they didn’t speak. The breeze lifted, carrying with it the scent of salt from the faraway sea, the quiet murmur of life continuing. When Dani finally looked back, Sophia was still there, but changed—less a forced tether, more a warmth pressed into her chest.
“Thank you,” Dani whispered, her voice catching.
Sophia smiled, fuller this time, radiant in the way of goodbyes that aren’t really endings. Full like she knew something Dani has yet to see.
And then Dani turned and she was gone.
She sat for a while longer, breathing in the space left behind, until the sound of her phone buzzing in her pocket reminded her of the world waiting.
She gave herself a moment to pause.
But there was only so much time to process when the opening of a gallery you were headlining was about to unveil.
Dani arrived early, stepping into the gallery just as the front doors were unlocked. The morning light spilled through the large windows, warm and soft, brushing the edges of her paintings. The space was quiet, almost reverent, except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the muted shuffle of the gallery staff putting out last-minute placards.
She lingered near her centerpiece, the figure in the water, the one that had started everything. The waves shimmered under the soft light, a slow pulse that seemed almost alive, and for a moment, Dani let herself breathe. She had dreamed of this moment for too long, and yet now that it was here, it was a weight she didn’t quite know how to carry.
Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, fingers brushing against each other, trying to channel the nervous energy that had been coiled inside her since dawn. She straightened her blouse, smoothed the fall of her curls, and took a careful, steadying breath.
Footsteps echoed against the polished floor. The first guests had arrived—an older man with a black jacket, hair streaked with gray, carrying a small notebook. He paused before the centerpiece, leaning slightly, as if he could feel the life beneath the paint.
Dani held herself still, letting the moment stretch. She didn’t want to intrude on the quiet awe of the first viewers. She watched him study the lines, the soft edges of the figure, the waves curling and folding like memories captured in motion.
A faint murmur of appreciation reached her ears. “It’s… haunting. But beautiful. You can feel the story in every stroke.”
Her chest tightened, and she swallowed hard. This . The recognition, the attention, the careful reverence—was what she had worked toward in silence for so long.
The first trickle of visitors began to swell into a stream. Friends arrived next, easing the tension she hadn’t realized she had been holding in her shoulders. Lara was first, her smile wide, her eyes bright, and immediately grounding. Megan appeared moments later, holding small gifts and a sketchbook for Dani, while Manon and Yoonchae followed, their presence quietly reassuring.
“You look nervous,” Lara said lightly, nudging her with a grin. “Don’t worry—you’ve got this.”
Dani laughed softly, more to cover her trembling than to answer. “I don’t know if anyone’s going to even notice,” she admitted.
“They will notice,” Yoonchae said firmly, eyes scanning the room. “And they’ll remember.”
Marquise moved through the crowd with her usual calm authority, checking that everything was in place, that Dani had a moment to breathe. “This is your night,” she said, giving Dani’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Don’t let it slip past you.” She shot her another look. Like Marquise knew everything would be different after tonight.
The gallery began to hum with life. Quiet conversations, clinking glasses, the soft rustle of feet on the hardwood. Dani stepped carefully along the perimeter, letting the visitors take in her work while she observed their reactions from just a few steps away.
“They’re… really responding,” Dani whispered to herself, eyes lingering on a small cluster of viewers murmuring over the centerpiece.
“They’re not just looking at paint,” Manon said, leaning close. “They’re feeling it. You made them feel it.”
Each group that paused in front of Dani’s paintings seemed caught between awe and curiosity.
A young couple lingered before the centerpiece, the unfinished figure in the waves. The man leaned slightly closer, squinting as though trying to read between the brushstrokes. “It feels… alive,” he murmured. “Like she’s moving, but also… waiting. Waiting for something or someone.”
The woman nodded, her hand brushing over her chest. “It’s almost like… memory you can touch. Or hope you can drown in.” She shivered, softly, and Dani felt an unexpected pang. Recognition, but not grief. Just the echo of emotion made tangible on canvas.
A group of students clustered around another piece, quietly whispering to each other, phones raised to snap photos. Their excitement was electric, and Dani couldn’t help smiling. One of them turned, bright-eyed. “I don’t know much about art,” he said, “but… this one—this makes me feel things I can’t explain. That’s amazing.”
Near the entrance, an older woman paused, tilting her head. She leaned in, studying the brushwork. “Such… honesty,” she said softly. “Pain, love, longing… all in one breath.” She gestured toward the waves. “And the water… it’s like it’s holding her story, keeping it safe.”
Dani’s chest tightened. These weren’t just polite compliments. They weren’t surface-level reactions. They were seeing. Feeling. Acknowledging.
Lara appeared at her side, whispering, “You’re making them see everything. Look at their faces—they can’t stop staring. They’re in your world now.”
Megan nudged her shoulder. “And they’re loving every second.” She handed Dani another flute of sparkling wine. “Take a sip, superstar. You’re earning it.”
Dani did, letting the cool bubbles distract her for a moment from the flurry of attention. She moved carefully among the guests, nodding, smiling, offering brief words of thanks. Each exchange was brief, fleeting, yet somehow grounding.
Then Sophie, the gallery owner, approached, her heels quiet on the polished floor. Her presence was calm, assured, but warm. “Daniela,” she said, voice low enough to not carry across the crowd, “you’ve truly outdone yourself tonight.”
Dani’s throat tightened. “Thank you… Sophie. That means a lot.”
Sophie gestured toward the centerpiece. “The way you captured the figure, the water… it’s haunting and comforting at the same time. You’ve drawn people in, but you’ve also invited them to feel something deeply personal. That’s rare.”
Dani exhaled slowly, gripping her glass a little tighter. “I just… I wanted them to feel it, you know? To see her—not just as someone I lost, but as someone who… mattered.”
Sophie nodded, eyes softening. “And they do. Every single person I’ve seen pause before that painting… they feel it. And that’s why this exhibit will be remembered. Not just for technique, but for honesty.”
Dani swallowed, a small lump in her throat. “I didn’t think I’d ever get here.”
Sophie smiled, a mix of reassurance and quiet pride. “And yet, here you are. You’ve done the work, you’ve carried the story, and you’ve let it breathe. That’s what makes an artist.”
Dani felt a small flicker of something—relief, awe, gratitude—all tangled together. She glanced around the gallery, at the faces captivated by her work, her friends quietly celebrating in the corner, and the soft glow of lights on the paint.
“Your attention to detail, your subtle storytelling. it’s all elevated by the honesty in your strokes,” Sophie continued. “Tonight isn’t just a debut. It’s a statement. You’ve arrived.”
Dani smiled, letting herself soak in the moment. “Thank you… for believing in me, Sophie. And for giving me this space. It’s… it’s everything.”
Sophie reached out, briefly brushing Dani’s shoulder. “You’ve earned every bit of it. Now go, enjoy it. Watch them see what you’ve made. It’s yours.”
Dani nodded, stepping back slightly, letting the guests, the murmurs, the awe wash over her.
She realized she needed air. Quiet. Space to breathe.
“Excuse me,” Dani says to Sophie,”i need to step outside for a bit..”
Sophie waves her off with a friendly smile.
Slipping past the clusters of guests, she found the side exit and stepped out into the early evening. The cool air brushed against her cheeks, carrying the faint scent of city streets mingled with the salt from the distant harbor. The noise of the gallery softened behind her, replaced by the gentle pulse of the world outside. Footsteps echoing on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, the occasional laughter drifting from a nearby café.
Dani leaned against the railing of a small terrace, letting her fingers trace the worn wood. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath, the night feeling like a momentary pause, a quiet pocket in the rush of the evening. She could feel the adrenaline ebbing, the nerves that had coiled tight in her chest slowly unwinding.
She thought back to the mornings when she had felt like a shadow passing through her own life, dragging herself from one day to the next. The nights spent staring at the ceiling, wrestling with regrets and unspoken words. The moments when the absence of Sophia had felt like a hollow ache she could never name. And now? The mornings had shape. The nights didn’t feel endless. She could laugh, she could speak her mind, she could move through the world without the constant weight pressing her down.
Dani’s fingers absentmindedly brushed the railing as she let herself consider it—she was here, fully herself, in a way she hadn’t been in years. She could feel it in the small details. The steadiness in her breathing, the way her heart didn’t leap at every unexpected sound, the faint but steady warmth in her chest that came from knowing she had finally learned to trust herself again.
And yet, even in this quiet realization, there was a twinge of recognition of how fleeting moments like this could be. Growth wasn’t a destination—it was a tide, moving slowly, sometimes pulling her backward, sometimes nudging her forward. But tonight, standing here, she could feel it all. The tide pulling her forward.
Her thoughts drifted, almost unconsciously, to the memories of lighter days. Shared small smiles, the soft laughter shared with friends, even the fleeting, stolen moments with Sophia. Not in a way that pained her, but in a way that made her grateful. Those moments had shaped her, had carried her through the darkest currents. And standing here, breathing in the cool evening air, Dani realized that she had learned not just to survive them, but to carry them with her—softly, like a familiar weight that reminded her how far she’d come.
“Ms. Avanzini?”
Her eyes opened, and for a brief second, she tensed—half-expecting another guest, another question, another demand on her attention. But it wasn’t a guest. It was Missy Paramo, her presence calm yet unmistakably commanding, stepping lightly onto the terrace. In Dani’s bubble of art, Missy was, quite literally, someone you couldn’t not know.
“I thought I might find you out here,” Missy said, her voice gentle but certain. “I wanted a quiet moment, without the crowd.”
Dani nodded, shifting slightly. “Yeah… it’s… a lot in there.”
Missy smiled, tilting her head. “I can imagine. Your work is drawing them in. And you’re doing… wonderfully.”
Dani let out a small laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “Thank you. I—I wasn’t sure I’d be able to… handle it all tonight.”
“You are,” Missy said simply. “And that’s exactly why I wanted to catch you here. Away from the noise. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about. An opportunity.”
Dani’s breath caught slightly. She had expected some small compliment, maybe feedback, but not… this. Her pulse quickened, not from fear, but from a ripple of hope she hadn’t realized she was holding back.
Missy extended a hand, but it wasn’t for shaking—it was for giving, presenting. Dani saw the slim business card she held out.
“I run a studio in New York,” Missy said, voice calm, almost conspiratorial. As if the studio wasn’t one of the biggest in the contemporary world, “A collective space for artists. We’ve got an opening soon. It’s a chance to be part of a community, to grow, to exhibit, to connect… if that’s something you’d want.”
Dani’s fingers hovered over the card before taking it. She felt a memory stir—the late nights, the dreams she’d whispered to herself, the small apartment in New York she had once imagined sharing with a life she wasn’t ready for. A flash of laughter, of city lights, of moments that had been fleeting yet brilliant.
“Wow,” Dani breathed. “Thank you. This… it’s… really generous.”
Missy’s lips curved, small but confident. “I don’t do charity, Daniela. But I do recognize talent when I see it. And you. Well, I do believe you’re ready for this.”
Dani tucked the card between her palms, tracing its edges lightly. She let the night air settle around her, filling the space the gallery had left behind.
“I’ll… think about it,” she said finally, voice soft but firm. “Seriously. I will.”
“Good,” Missy said, a slight nod of approval. “New York will be waiting if you’re ready.”
She left her alone just after that, heading back into the waves of gentle chaos just behind those seaglass doors.
Dani lingered.
The card burned lightly in her hand, a small, tangible reminder of something that had always existed somewhere in the back of her mind.
Change.
A new studio, new faces, a city that never stopped moving—just like the tide that always returned to Stillwater. She could feel the pull of it, a quiet lure that whispered of a life different from this one, full of unknowns and, maybe, freedom.
And yet, there was a tug at her chest that made her hesitate. The gallery, her friends, the harbor just beyond her sight. All of it felt like home now. She had worked for years to rebuild, to feel steady and whole again. Could she really leave it behind?
Dani closed her eyes, taking a slow, steadying breath. The weight of the decision pressed on her, but it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt… real. Alive. She could leave if she wanted. She could stay. Either way, she knew she had reached a place where the choice was hers. Not one dictated by fear or guilt.
By the time Dani had decided to head back in, the gallery was starting to empty.
The last few guests lingered only to give one final glance at the paintings that had drawn them in. Dani stood near the center, letting herself breathe in the quiet. The evening had been everything she’d hoped for and more: praise, connection, a feeling of being seen. And now, with the world outside moving on without her, she could just… exist in the glow of it all.
She wandered slowly among her own canvases, fingers brushing lightly over the frames as if to memorize them one last time. Each painting held a piece of herself she hadn’t known how to show before. Fragments of memory, grief, hope, and small joys that had returned to her life.
She paused before the final portrait. The first one she had tried to paint of Sophia. It was unfinished, edges soft and hesitant, but unmistakable.
And then she saw someone there. Staring down at the nameplate of the painting
A familiar presence. White turtleneck on tanned coat, calm posture, eyes that held all the same sharpness, now softened by years. Hair longer, bangs gone. Mature. A small New York Barrow pin glinted faintly on the strap of a canvas bag. Nothing more. Just enough to hint at a life lived elsewhere, a world beyond this room.
Dani didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just stood, letting herself take in the figure before her. The woman’s gaze lifted slowly, catching hers, and the moment stretched. Quiet, suspended, almost sacred.
“Stillwater, huh?” Sophia’s voice was soft, teasing. Just enough for Dani to hear.
The latina let out a breathless laugh, short and unguarded. Sophia’s laugh followed, low and easy, carrying a weight that had once hung heavy between them.
“Am I imagining you again. What — how — you’re here? ” Dani asked, though her tone carried disbelief and awe, not accusation.
Sophia tilted her head slightly, eyes glinting with a private amusement. “A little birdie told me about you and this little gig of yours.”
Dani shook her head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at her lips. “Marquise,” she muttered, almost to herself.
“And who would I be to miss it?”
There was a quiet pause. Words hovered, unspoken, heavy with meaning and years. Sophia shifted her bag slightly, the movement letting out a soft rustle.. Dani noticed the pin again, and she clutched the card in her own hand tighter.
Sophia cleared her throat.
“Coffee?” Sophia’s words were both a question and an invitation, a small bridge across the space between.
Dani nodded, heart quickening, throat tight. “Yeah,” she whispered.
They didn’t speak more. They didn’t need to. The moment belonged to them.
Dani simply watched, letting the quiet settle around them. Like water in a sheltered cove, still on the surface, yet carrying everything beneath, waiting for the next ripple to find its way.