Chapter 3 — Pencil Strokes

Dual POV (Ella and Miles)

The late afternoon sun filtered through the beveled glass of the mansion’s windows, casting fractured light across the marble floor of the sitting room. Ella sat motionless on the edge of the velvet armchair, her hazel eyes fixed on the small, leather-bound sketchbook she had retrieved from the attic hours ago. It rested on the table before her, its aged cover worn smooth from years of handling. The gold locket embedded in its surface caught the sunlight, glinting faintly as if beckoning her to open it.

Her hand hovered over the book, trembling slightly. The last time she had touched this sketchbook, her husband had been alive, standing over her shoulder, his voice warm with encouragement as she shaded the curve of an antique vase they had purchased together on a whim. The faint scent of lilac, James’s favorite flower, lingered in the air, as if his presence still filled the room. The memory pressed down on her, heavy and unrelenting. For years, she had avoided this, locked it all away along with her grief, her guilt, and the part of herself that had once felt joy in the simple act of creation.

Miles’s words had changed that. His unabashed enthusiasm for art, for connection, had stirred something in her, loosening the lock on a part of her she thought was gone. She remembered the way his voice softened when he talked about imperfection, as though it were a quality to be celebrated rather than dismissed. “Art finds you,” he had said during their second meeting, his hands gesturing animatedly. “Even when you’re not looking for it.” The words had lingered, trailing her like an unfinished melody, coaxing her to move, to try.

Her fingers brushed the sketchbook’s cover, tracing the edge of the locket. The aged leather was cool under her touch, textured like a faded memory. With a sharp inhale, she opened it.

The first page greeted her with a pencil sketch of a lithe figure in motion—her husband, James, mid-laugh, his head tilted back. She had captured him in an off-guard moment during one of their gallery trips. The lines were loose, fluid, and confident, the expression so alive it felt as though he would step off the page. Her chest tightened as a wave of guilt and longing swept over her. She imagined James’s voice, gentle yet knowing, coaxing her: “Go on, Ell. Don’t let this scare you.”

She flipped past the drawing quickly, her fingers trembling. The memories etched into the paper were too sharp, too raw.

Instead, she turned to a blank page near the back, the paper still crisp despite the weight of years. Her fingers brushed the surface, the texture familiar yet strange, like the ghost of an old friend she was too afraid to embrace. Next to the sketchbook sat a tin of graphite pencils she had unearthed from the attic. She fidgeted with the lid before selecting one at random and holding it lightly in her hand. For a moment, she hesitated, her pulse quickening as self-doubt crept in.

What if it’s all gone? What if I can’t do this anymore? What if…

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, grounding herself. Her mind drifted not to James this time, but to Miles. His dark, expressive eyes that seemed to convey entire stories in a glance. The way his hands moved as he spoke, animated and unselfconscious, still speckled with streaks of paint from an earlier project. She thought of the way his tone dipped, softer and almost shy, when he mentioned his dream of opening a community art space.

Her hand moved of its own accord.

The first lines were hesitant, faint against the pristine page. A curve of a jawline. A lock of hair twisted in unruly spirals. As she continued, the lines grew bolder, more assured. The pencil glided across the page, guided by memory and intuition. She lost herself in the process, the world around her dissolving until it was just her, the paper, and the image forming beneath her fingers.

When she finished, she sat back and stared at the sketch, her heart pounding. Miles’s likeness stared back at her, his expression caught between a smile and something more introspective. It wasn’t perfect—the shading was uneven, and some of the proportions felt off—but it was hers.

For the first time in years, Ella felt a flicker of pride. Tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back blurred her vision, and she blinked them away, letting out a small, shaky exhale. She traced the edge of the locket on the sketchbook’s cover absently before carefully placing it on the table—a visible reminder of what she had begun today.

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Miles stepped into his modest apartment, the scent of fresh pizza still clinging to his clothes. He tossed his keys onto the counter and collapsed onto the worn couch, his muscles aching from a long shift. The room was cluttered with remnants of his life as both a delivery driver and an artist—paintbrushes and half-empty tubes of acrylic paint littered the coffee table, and sketches were pinned haphazardly to the walls, their edges curling with time.

The apartment was small but alive, vibrant with the energy of his work. Through the single window that overlooked the street, Miles could see the faint glow of a mural a few blocks away, its colors visible even in the fading light. A child’s laugh and the faint strum of a guitar floated through the open window, an ever-present reminder of his community’s pulse.

Miles leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His mind wandered to Ella. He couldn’t stop picturing her world—a world so pristine, so untouchable it seemed like it belonged in a museum, behind glass. Yet, she had surprised him. There was something in her eyes, a kind of quiet yearning, that hinted at more than her polished exterior. He remembered how she hesitated before smiling at his comment about her husband’s painting, the brief moment when her guard slipped.

He thought of the painting he had started after meeting her—a canvas propped against the wall, its surface half-covered in broad, sweeping strokes of deep blue and soft amber. The colors reminded him of her—the elegance she carried, tempered by a subtle warmth he hadn’t expected.

Getting up, Miles grabbed a brush, its handle worn smooth from years of use, and dipped it into the palette of colors he had mixed earlier. He worked the blue into the amber with a careful hand, creating a gradient that felt like twilight. As he moved, he imagined what he might say to Ella if she saw this. “This is yours, too,” he thought, the words tentative but sincere. “You’re part of it.”

But along with the hope came doubt. Could someone like her ever really belong in his world? Could he ever be more than the delivery guy with paint-stained hands? He glanced at his uniform draped over the back of a chair and frowned, his grip tightening briefly on the brush.

His strokes grew bolder, more confident as he worked. He added a touch of light blue, softening the edges of the darker hues. The painting wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was alive, raw with the energy of possibility.

Across the room, propped against the wall, sat a battered paintbrush, its bristles still stained from his rooftop mural project. Miles glanced at it, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The mural was far from finished, but the vision for it had started to take shape—a celebration of his community, infused with fragments of inspiration from Ella.

As the evening deepened, Miles stood back from the canvas, wiping his hands on his jeans. He stared at the painting, his breath catching slightly. She was there, in the colors, in the movement of the strokes. Without realizing it, he had painted her—not entirely, but the essence of her.

He sank onto the couch again, his gaze lingering on the painting. Somewhere in her quiet mansion, he imagined Ella looking at a blank page or perhaps sketching something tentative and beautiful. The thought brought a warmth to his chest, a flicker of connection even across the distance of their worlds.

Miles leaned back, exhausted but restless. The city hummed outside, vibrant and alive, while a quiet determination began to settle in his chest. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d pick up his work on the rooftop mural. He didn’t know if Ella would ever see it, but if she did, he hoped she’d feel the same spark he had felt every time he thought of her.