Chapter 2 — A Painting Finds Its Way Back

Third Person

The low hum of conversation mingled with the faint strains of classical music drifting from unseen speakers, wrapping the park in a gentle rhythm of life. Sam lingered near the edge of the event, her hands buried deep in the oversized pockets of her cardigan. The neighborhood art fair stretched across the city park, its green lawns and cobblestone paths dotted with white tents. Displays of local artwork, handmade crafts, and the scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, creating an atmosphere of vibrancy that felt both inviting and alien to her.

It had been Maisie who had always loved events like these—dragging Sam along, her bohemian energy lighting up every interaction. Maisie would have marveled at the art, speaking animatedly to the artists, coaxing Sam out of her shell. Without her, the crowd felt overwhelming and unfamiliar, a sea of strangers moving with purpose while Sam stood adrift on the fringes. She had forced herself out of her apartment today, driven by a vague sense that Maisie would have wanted her to try. But now, clutching the strap of her canvas bag as though it might tether her to solid ground, she wasn’t sure if this had been a mistake.

The roasted chestnuts were a small comfort, their sharp, earthy scent tugging her forward. Her feet moved hesitantly along the cobblestone path, her gaze flitting between stalls of vivid cityscapes, rolling coastlines, and jewel-toned handmade trinkets. Each work seemed to hum with life, as though mocking the emptiness she had carried for months. Her grip on the strap tightened.

She stopped abruptly in front of a tent strung with fairy lights. An abstract painting leaned against its entrance, its bold streaks of crimson and cobalt slashing across the canvas with startling intensity. The colors seemed to ripple, alive with energy. Her breath hitched. It reminded her of the way she used to paint, back when her hands had been extensions of her emotions instead of strangers at her sides.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice said, cutting softly through her thoughts.

Sam turned sharply, startled. A man stood beside her, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket. He was tall, his warm hazel eyes framed by faint lines that hinted at kindness and experience. There was an openness in the way he regarded her, careful and unassuming, that kept her from retreating. His gaze shifted to the painting.

“They’re by a local artist,” he said, nodding toward the display. “A friend brought me here last year. Nice to see so much creativity in one place.”

She nodded but said nothing, her mind already churning for an excuse to step away. Before she could form the words, his voice softened.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just…” He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly, as though weighing his next words. “I thought I recognized you.”

Her heart jolted. She shook her head quickly, her lips parting in denial. “I don’t—”

“You’re Samantha Walker, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone cautious, almost apologetic. “The artist.”

The word struck her like a physical blow, its weight unfamiliar and jarring. Artist. It had been so long since she had thought of herself that way, let alone heard someone else say it. Her first instinct was to deny it, to shrink away from the recognition, but there was no judgment in his voice—only a quiet certainty.

“I… I used to be,” she murmured, the words faltering. Her hands fidgeted with the strap of her bag, her knuckles whitening.

The man smiled, a small, genuine expression that softened his features. “I thought so. I have one of your paintings. It’s hanging in my living room.”

Her gaze snapped to his face, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all she found was earnestness. He didn’t look away, not even when surprise flickered across her features.

“It’s a smaller one,” he continued, his voice carrying the reverence of someone recounting a treasured memory. “A wildflower meadow after a storm. The way you captured the light—it felt like the air was still heavy with rain. I bought it not long after my wife passed away.” His voice dipped, his gaze growing distant. “It brought me peace when I needed it most.”

Sam blinked, the words settling over her like a weight. The wildflower series. She hadn’t thought about those paintings in what felt like a lifetime. She remembered the hours spent layering greens and golds, chasing the fleeting beauty of light breaking through storm clouds. And now, one of those pieces had lived beyond her, finding its way into this man’s life, offering him something she hadn’t been able to find for herself.

“You… bought my painting?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I did,” he said, nodding. “The gallery owner mentioned you weren’t doing public events anymore, so I couldn’t meet you at the time. I’ve always regretted that.”

Her throat tightened, her breath shallow. He spoke of her work as though it had mattered, as though it still mattered, even after she had abandoned it. The idea was both overwhelming and inexplicably grounding.

“I’m Erik Bennett,” he said, extending a hand. “Sorry, I should have started with that. I guess I got a little carried away.”

Sam hesitated before taking his hand, her grip tentative but steady. His handshake was firm, his touch warm, but he withdrew quickly, as though sensing her discomfort.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she murmured.

Erik nodded, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before returning to the painting. “You don’t paint anymore, do you?”

The question struck a nerve, though his tone held no condemnation. She shook her head. “Not for a while.”

“That’s a shame,” he said quietly. “You have a gift. It’s not just the technique—it’s the way your work makes people feel.” He paused, his voice softening. “It made me feel.”

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the woman who had created those paintings was long gone, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, a memory surfaced—late nights in her old studio, Maisie perched on a stool nearby, her laughter filling the space as Sam painted. The ache of it was sharp, yet strangely comforting.

“I know a place,” Erik said, breaking the silence. His tone was lighter now, almost casual. “It’s a shared studio space. A lot of artists work there—painters, sculptors, you name it. It’s quiet most of the time, and the light is incredible. I think you’d like it.”

Sam blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. Her instinct was to refuse, to retreat back into the safety of her isolation, but Erik raised a hand, his expression gentle.

“No pressure,” he said. “Sometimes being around other creative people can be good for the soul. Or at least that’s what my mom keeps telling me.” He chuckled softly, the sound warm and self-deprecating.

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, and the reaction startled her.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice low but steady.

Erik smiled, a quiet relief visible in his expression. “That’s all I can ask.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card, holding it out to her. “The address is on here. If you ever want to stop by, just let me know.”

Sam took the card with trembling fingers, its edges crisp against her skin. Erik nodded once more, then gestured toward the tent. “It was really nice meeting you, Sam. And… thank you. For the painting.”

She watched him walk away, his figure blending into the crowd. Her gaze dropped to the card in her hand, the address printed neatly in black ink. The weight of it felt strange, small but significant.

For the first time in months, a flicker of something stirred within her. Not quite hope, but the faintest whisper of it—a spark waiting for air to catch.