The next morning, the skies weren't blue—they were heavy. A storm was coming.
Maya sat by the bedroom window, sketchpad resting on her lap, watching clouds roll in like a warning. Yet for the first time in years, she didn't feel fear in the storm—just stillness.
A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
"Maya," her aunt called gently. "Someone's here for you."
Her heart fluttered. She hadn't told anyone where she lived—not even Luca.
Downstairs, Luca stood in the doorway with damp hair and a nervous smile, holding a small package wrapped in brown paper.
> "I didn't know if you'd want this," he said. "But… I found it. Your old drawing. From the museum's lost-and-found box."
Maya unwrapped it slowly—the first sunflower she'd ever drawn, a little faded, slightly torn, but undeniably hers. Her throat tightened.
Luca glanced toward the thunder outside.
> "They're doing a live-sketch event at the museum today. If you feel ready, maybe you could come. Just watch. Or draw. Or… just sit with me."
A crowd. Noise. Pressure—yet also growth.
The sunflower sketch had survived; maybe she could too. She gave a small nod.
---
The museum hummed softly with life. Rain hammered the roof while warm gallery lights glowed inside. Artists sketched in quiet corners; no one watched Maya too closely or asked her to speak.
Luca guided her to a table near the back. A blank sheet of paper waited.
She stared at it, pencil trembling—then memory washed over her:
Ten-year-old Maya, racing through a sunflower field, yellow watercolor staining her fingers.
> "You don't need to be perfect," her mother whispered, kneeling beside her. "Just be honest. That's where the art lives."
Warmth bloomed in her chest.
Maya breathed in and began to draw—not a sunflower this time, but a girl standing in a storm—head lifted, eyes steady, hands open as though catching rain instead of running from it.
Luca leaned in quietly.
> "She looks… strong."
"She's learning," Maya replied.
They shared a soft, real smile.
---
Packing up to leave, Maya glanced toward the far end of the gallery—and froze.
A man in a gray coat stood watching. He wasn't sketching or browsing—he was watching her. Their eyes met; he turned away and melted into the crowd.
Luca noticed the tension in her shoulders.
> "Everything okay?"
"Yeah… just thought I saw someone I knew," she said, though she knew he wasn't someone she knew—he was someone she remembered.
And he shouldn't have known she was here.