Chapter 1 — Brushstrokes and Crumbs

Eamon

The morning light draped the park in a soft golden glow, filtering through the canopy of trees and dappling the ground with shifting patterns. Eamon Calder sat on a weathered wooden bench near the pond, his long legs stretched out before him and his leather sketchbook balanced on his knee. The faint scent of damp earth mingled with the crisp bite of autumn in the air, and the rustle of leaves blended into the gentle hum of life surrounding him.

He moved his pencil in measured strokes, the tip whispering across the textured paper. The pond before him was a mirror of muted grays and greens, its surface broken occasionally by the ripples of a duck gliding through. As always, his focus lingered on the details: the delicate curve of a branch reflected in the water, the way the sunlight caught on a stray feather floating by. These moments—the quiet, the stillness—grounded him.

Yet, a familiar weight pressed at the edges of his thoughts. Guilt. It slipped in uninvited, coiled around his attempts to focus. His pencil paused mid-stroke as a memory surfaced: Clara at eight years old, holding a crayon-drawn picture of the two of them, her face expectant. He’d been distracted, tired from work, and had barely glanced at it before murmuring a distracted “nice job.” Her small shoulders had slumped as she tucked the drawing away, and he’d never seen it again. He wondered now if she still remembered that moment—or if she’d simply grown used to the gaps he left behind.

Eamon shook his head as if to dislodge the thought and returned to his sketch. Art was supposed to be his escape, his way of untangling the knots inside him. But lately, even here, in the park’s embrace, his mind refused to quiet.

He was halfway through shading the gnarled trunk of a tree when a commotion to his left drew his attention. There was a dull thunk, followed by a soft exclamation in what sounded like French.

Eamon glanced up, his pencil still poised above the page. A petite woman had just reached the fountain, her arms laden with an overflowing picnic basket. She walked briskly, her wavy dark hair escaping from a loose bun as she struggled to keep the basket balanced.

It happened fast. The bottom of the basket seemed to give way just as she reached the edge of the fountain. A flurry of baked goods—cookies, scones, and something wrapped in wax paper—tumbled out, scattering across the stone rim and the ground below. The woman let out a sharp gasp, crouching immediately to gather the spilled contents.

For a moment, Eamon hesitated, his grip tightening on the sketchbook. He was good at staying invisible, at keeping to himself. But there was something in the slump of her shoulders, the way she muttered under her breath as her hands fluttered uncertainly over the mess, that tugged at him. He glanced back at his sketchbook, then slid it into his bag with a quiet sigh.

His boots crunched softly on the gravel path as he approached her. “Need a hand?” His voice was quiet, deliberate, but it carried enough to make her look up.

She blinked at him, her hazel eyes wide with surprise before softening with gratitude. “Oh, thank you. That’s kind of you.”

Eamon crouched beside her, picking up a rogue cookie that had rolled to the edge of the path. It was a perfect circle, its edges golden and slightly crumbly. He placed it gently back in the basket she was reorganizing, noticing the faint scent of cinnamon and butter wafting from her baking.

“This one’s still good,” he said, brushing a stray crumb off his palm.

The woman gave a small laugh, the sound light and self-deprecating. “I hope so. Not exactly the grand entrance I was hoping for.”

Eamon’s lips twitched in what might have been the start of a smile. “Entrance?” he asked, his tone curious but careful.

“Well,” she began, glancing at the basket as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a faint smudge of flour on her cheek. “I thought I’d test out an idea—share some recipes I’ve been working on and see how people respond. You know, a kind of... edible experiment. Turns out, it’s a lot harder to make a good impression when your cookies are rolling across the park.”

“Maybe they’re just eager to meet everyone,” Eamon offered dryly, handing her a slightly cracked scone.

She laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. “Optimistic view. I like that.” She paused, tilting her head as if considering something. “Maybe I should call them ‘resilient recipes.’ What do you think?”

“Seems fitting,” he replied, his voice low but warm.

Then, as if remembering herself, she extended a hand. “I’m Maris, by the way.”

“Eamon,” he replied, clasping her hand briefly. Her grip was firm and warm, catching him off guard.

Her gaze flicked to the bag slung over his shoulder, where the edge of his sketchbook peeked out. “Are you an artist?”

The question made him stiffen slightly, his fingers brushing the strap reflexively. “I draw sometimes,” he said, his tone measured.

“That’s wonderful,” Maris said, her enthusiasm genuine. “The park must be perfect for that—so much inspiration here.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting to the pond. “It helps me... focus.”

Maris didn’t press him for more, and he appreciated that. They worked in companionable silence for a few moments, gathering the last of the scattered baked goods. When the basket was finally full again—though a bit more haphazardly packed—she straightened and let out a soft sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Eamon. I might still have a fighting chance at salvaging today because of you.”

“No trouble,” he said, brushing dust from his knees as he stood.

Maris held out a cookie, one of the slightly cracked ones. “Here. A little thank-you for your trouble.”

He hesitated again, then accepted it with a small nod. The cookie was warm in his hand, its surface flecked with sugar.

As Maris adjusted the basket on her arm and turned to leave, she glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll see you around. Take care.”

“You too,” Eamon replied, watching as she walked toward a group of parkgoers seated near the fountain.

He lingered for a moment, then returned to his bench. The sketchbook slid back into his lap, but he didn’t open it right away. Instead, he stared at the cookie in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over its surface.

The park seemed quieter now, though the same sounds filled the air. Eamon bit into the cookie, the cinnamon and butter melting on his tongue. It wasn’t just good—it was something else. Something that lingered, like the faint impression of a memory he couldn’t quite place.

For a moment, he thought of Clara and the evenings they used to spend in the kitchen before everything fell apart. He wondered if she remembered the way they’d laugh over the mess they made, or if all she saw now were the gaps he struggled to fill.

Finally, he opened his sketchbook again. But instead of returning to the pond’s reflection, he began sketching something new—a basket spilling over, the curve of a cookie, and a faint, almost-smile on the face of a woman with dark hair.

His pencil moved with a confidence he hadn’t felt in years, as if something had shifted, just slightly, within him.