Chapter 2 — Small Town Shadows
Iris
The sun had barely climbed above the tree line when Iris Vale set her mug of coffee down on the kitchen counter. Steam curled above the chipped ceramic, dissipating into the cool morning air that seeped through the drafty windows. The faint aroma of turpentine mingled with the scent of fresh coffee, a quiet reminder of her late-night painting session. She glanced at the half-finished canvas still propped on its easel in the corner; light and shadow tangled in a narrative she hadn’t quite resolved.
The house was quiet except for the hum of the radiator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Leo moved upstairs. This was her favorite time of day—before the world pressed in and her responsibilities tightened their grip.
She stood by the window, her gaze wandering over the garden just outside. Lavender and daisies her mother had planted years ago now tangled with weeds, their beauty tempered by chaos. Iris liked it that way—it felt honest. A reflection of her life, her art. Messy but alive, imperfect yet full of meaning.
Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the Golden Hour Locket resting against her collarbone. She held it for a moment, her thumb running over the faint etching of the sunrise before she turned toward the dining table. Her laptop sat open, the soft glow of the screen pulling her in. ShadowLens. The name pulsed in her mind like a heartbeat.
She hesitated, then clicked on her latest post. The watercolor sunrise filled the screen, hues of ochre and rose melding together in a reflection of yesterday’s dawn. It wasn’t perfect—but it was hers. Every stroke of her brush carried a piece of her, raw and unguarded.
Her gaze dropped below the image, where his comment glowed like a beacon:
*"Stunning work. Your view of light is remarkable."*
Her breath caught. She reread the words, her chest tightening, and for a moment, the world outside her window fell away. His photographs had captivated her for years—each an intricate dance of light and shadow that spoke truths she’d never been able to articulate. That someone like him had noticed her felt surreal, too enormous to fully grasp. Her fingers trembled as she brushed the edge of her laptop, half-expecting the comment to vanish if she blinked too hard.
The validation was overwhelming, but it didn’t erase the doubts that trailed close behind. *What if it’s a fluke? What if it’s not enough?*
She reached for her Whispering Pines Sketchbook, the worn leather cool beneath her fingertips. Flipping through its pages, she lingered on old sketches—failed experiments and unfinished ideas that chronicled her journey. Her thumb paused on a sketch of a sunrise she’d started months ago, the light breaking through dark clouds. It was rough, but something about the chaos of the lines resonated now in a way it hadn’t before.
Her pencil hovered over a fresh page as images sparked in her mind—soft rays piercing through dense woods, light weaving through shadows like it was searching for something. She pressed the pencil down, sketching a tentative outline, when a loud crash from the kitchen shattered her focus.
“I swear to God, Leo!” she called, already bracing herself for whatever mess awaited her.
Her younger brother appeared in the doorway, a box of cereal in one hand and a sheepish grin on his face. His curly brown hair stuck up in every direction, and his green eyes sparkled with the kind of mischief that only came from being caught red-handed.
“Relax,” he said, holding up the cereal box as if it were a shield. “It was just the toaster. And technically, it’s fine. The toast isn’t, though.”
Iris groaned, snapping her sketchbook shut. “You’re a disaster, you know that?”
“No argument there,” Leo replied, pouring milk into his cereal bowl. “But you love me anyway.”
“Debatable,” she muttered, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite herself. She leaned against the counter, watching him shovel cereal into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Are you working on something?” he asked between bites, gesturing toward her sketchbook.
“Maybe,” she said cautiously, her tone guarded.
“Must be nice,” he said with a shrug, his voice dripping with casual indifference.
Her smile faded. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He kept his gaze on his cereal but shrugged again. “Just… you’ve got all this time for painting and stuff while I’m stuck trying to figure out what comes next.”
There it was—his frustration slipping through the cracks in his sarcasm. The words stung, but it was the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly that made her chest tighten.
“It’s not just painting,” she said quietly. “It’s work. And it’s important to me.”
Leo didn’t look at her. Instead, he set his bowl in the sink with a clatter and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Before Iris could respond, a sharp knock on the door broke the tension.
Marisol Rivera swept into the room, her long black hair braided elegantly over one shoulder. The scent of her perfume—spicy and warm, like cinnamon—filled the air as the heels of her boots clicked against the hardwood floor. Her presence, as always, carried a buoyant energy that seemed to chase away the heaviness lingering in the room.
“Morning, Vale siblings,” Marisol said brightly, her gaze flicking between them. “And what delightful chaos have I walked into today?”
“Leo burned toast,” Iris said flatly.
“Again?” Marisol teased, arching an eyebrow at Leo.
“Don’t encourage her,” Leo muttered, retreating upstairs with his cereal.
Marisol’s smile softened as she turned to Iris. “You okay?”
Iris hesitated, then shrugged. “You know. The usual.”
Marisol planted herself at the dining table, gesturing for Iris to sit down. “And the usual is what? Doubting yourself for no reason? Or secretly working on something brilliant?”
Iris rolled her eyes, but a flicker of warmth spread through her chest. “A little of both.”
“Well, today we’re focusing on the brilliant part,” Marisol declared, patting the table. “Show me.”
Iris hesitated, then slowly opened her sketchbook to the page she’d just started. The rough outline of soft, fragile light breaking through dense trees stared back at her. She watched Marisol’s face carefully, her fingers fiddling with the locket around her neck.
Marisol studied the sketch for a long moment, then nodded. “I love how the light feels alive, like it’s finding its way through the chaos.” She glanced up, her espresso-colored eyes steady. “It’s beautiful, Iris. You’re amazing.”
“It’s not finished,” Iris said quickly, her cheeks warming.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Marisol replied. “You know, you’ve got people all over the country liking your posts. How many people in this town can say that?”
“It’s just social media,” Iris mumbled, but her voice lacked conviction.
“No. It’s people noticing your talent,” Marisol said firmly. “And you should start thinking about what’s next. Maybe a local exhibit—or even building an online portfolio. You’re not just some hobbyist, Iris. You’re an artist.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and daunting. Iris wasn’t sure she believed it—not yet—but hearing Marisol say it made it feel just a little more possible.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Marisol reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “You’ve got this,” she said, her tone steady and unshakeable.
Iris glanced at her sketchbook again, her pencil hovering above the page. The morning light streaming through the window cast warm shadows across the room, and for just a moment, she let herself believe it. Maybe, just maybe, she could find her way out of the shadows after all.
