Chapter 3 — The Forgotten Easel

Third Person

The studio stood at the end of a quiet alley, framed by a weathered brick café and a boutique florist whose overflowing pots of lavender softened the sharp industrial edges of the street. Sam hesitated at the entrance, her breath catching as she glanced up at the large windows above, streaked faintly with sunlight. The building exuded a kind of unpolished charm she wasn’t sure she belonged to—a place alive with possibility, where blank canvases were reborn under careful hands. Erik’s card was folded tightly in her palm, its edges digging into her skin, a small anchor against the rising tide of self-doubt.

The card had sat on her kitchen counter for days, a silent challenge she couldn’t discard. Maisie’s voice had finally pushed her forward: *“You’ll have to fight like hell to get it back.”* The words pulsed in her memory now, merging with the faint hum of the alley. Yet her feet felt like they were weighed down, rooting her in place. Her fingers tightened around the card.

She imagined the smells inside—linseed oil and turpentine—and the thought jarred something loose in her chest. That scent had once been a part of her. Her hands had carried it home, staining her clothes and her life with its lingering presence. It had meant something. Now it was a ghost, haunting her with what she had lost.

Her breath quickened, and she took a shaky step forward. A cold breeze brushed past her, and she imagined Maisie’s hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm. *“You can do this,”* it seemed to say. She pushed the heavy metal door open.

The air inside was cool, tinged with linseed oil and turpentine, its sharpness grounding her. Sunlight poured through wide windows, casting golden streams that caught on the dust motes swirling lazily in the air. Her steps echoed faintly against the polished concrete floors, while the faint hum of activity filled the cavernous space. High ceilings stretched above her, adorned with steel beams. The walls were lined with mismatched racks of brushes, jars of paint, and half-finished sculptures—an organized chaos that spoke of lives lived in creative service.

Her eyes landed on Erik near the back. He stood beside a broad wooden workbench, a clipboard in hand, speaking quietly to a woman with cobalt blue streaks in her hair. His demeanor was relaxed, almost effortless, as though he belonged here—a grounding presence amid the room’s pulsing energy.

Sam’s instinct was to retreat before he noticed her, but her feet betrayed her, dragging her forward in hesitant steps. Her chest tightened as Erik’s gaze lifted and softened when it met hers. He smiled, a quiet, welcoming expression that held no trace of surprise, only encouragement.

“You made it,” he said warmly, setting the clipboard down and stepping away from the workbench. “I was starting to think that card had found its way to a recycling bin.”

Sam managed a small smile, her shoulders instinctively hunching. “It almost did.” Her voice was quieter than she intended, swallowed by the vastness of the room. “But… I thought I’d take a look.”

“I’m glad you did,” Erik said, his tone as genuine as the first time they’d met. “Sometimes the hardest part is just walking through the door.”

Sam’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the details she hadn’t noticed in her initial, anxious sweep. Artists moved through the space with an unhurried rhythm, their conversations soft and sporadic. One man bent low over a massive canvas stretched across the floor, his brush carving wild arcs of red and black. Nearby, a woman at a pottery wheel worked with serene focus, her hands shaping clay that seemed to breathe life as it spun.

“It’s… a lot,” Sam admitted. The word was insufficient, barely brushing against the awe, intimidation, and unworthiness stirring within her.

Erik nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It can be, especially if you’ve been out of it for a while. But that’s the beauty of this place—no one’s here to judge. Everyone’s just trying to figure out their own thing.”

Sam bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t even know what my ‘thing’ is anymore.”

“That’s okay,” Erik said gently. “Sometimes just being here can help you figure it out.”

Before she could respond, the cobalt-haired woman approached, her hands smudged with charcoal. She offered a wide, easy smile. “You must be Sam. Erik mentioned you might stop by.”

Sam stiffened, her stomach twisting. “He did?”

“Nothing mortifying, don’t worry,” the woman said with a playful grin. “Just that you’re a painter. We’re always excited to have someone new join the space. I was terrified the first time I walked in here. Spent the first two days pretending to check my phone in the corner until I got over it.”

Sam blinked, startled into a small smile that faded quickly. “Thanks,” she said softly, unsure if she meant it.

“Anya,” the woman introduced herself, holding out a charcoal-stained hand. Sam hesitated before shaking it. The warmth of Anya’s grip surprised her.

“If you need anything, just yell,” Anya said, releasing her hand. “We’ve all been the newbie at some point.”

Sam nodded mutely, resisting the urge to shrink away. Anya turned back to her workbench with a parting smile, her movements unhurried.

“Come on,” Erik said, his voice low and steady. “Let me show you around.”

He led her through the space at an unhurried pace, pointing out shared supplies, the small kitchenette in the corner, and the bulletin board plastered with flyers for gallery openings and workshops. Sam followed silently, her eyes darting between the people and their work, trying to absorb it all without letting it overwhelm her. The sunlight streaming through the windows cast the room in warm hues, a sharp contrast to the dim, suffocating spaces of her past life with David. Here, there was movement, imperfection, and life—everything her old world had lacked.

They stopped near a cluster of easels, some occupied, others standing empty like sentinels waiting for their next charge. Sam’s gaze caught on one in particular, pushed back against the wall. It was old, its wood weathered and scarred with years of use. Faded flecks of paint speckled its surface, a testament to the countless hands that had shaped visions upon it.

“This one’s been here forever,” Erik said, noticing her attention. “No one knows where it came from. Some people think it’s lucky.”

Sam blinked, her fingers twitching with the phantom sensation of a brush in her hand. The easel seemed to call to her, its imperfections a quiet invitation. She stepped closer, the pull magnetic, until her fingers brushed the rough wood. The texture was grounding, a reminder that even something so worn could still stand tall, still have purpose.

Her throat tightened as she asked, “Can I… use it?”

“Of course,” Erik said. “It’s here for anyone who needs it.”

Sam swallowed hard. She traced the edges of the easel, her thoughts tangled. Could she really do this? Could she pick up a brush again after everything she’d lost? The weight of her grief and fear pressed down on her, but beneath it was something else—a flicker of possibility, faint but insistent.

Erik stepped back, giving her space but not abandoning her completely. “Take your time,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do everything today. Just being here is enough.”

Sam nodded, her grip on the easel tightening briefly. Sunlight caught its worn surface, illuminating its imperfections like cracks in a foundation that still held firm. She glanced at Erik, his warm hazel eyes steady, and allowed herself a small, hesitant breath.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.