The rain tapped softly on my attic window in Islington, London. The city itself seemed to sigh. I’m Lyra Thorne, 28. I’m a finance analyst. Tired eyes. My soul held unspoken dreams. I watched droplets slide down the old pane. Each one raced, trying to escape London’s grey. I used to see them as tiny adventurers. They hurried against time. This morning? No daydreams. Just a weird feeling. Cold under my skin. It stuck. I should’ve listened.
The office at Aethelred & Co. was too quiet. It’s a fancy finance firm. Spooky quiet. Keyboard clicks were gone. Fake laughs from the breakroom vanished. Whispers floated. Like thin smoke. They curled under doors. Clung to shoulders. We all felt it. Something was coming. A storm. It threatened to swallow us.
Right at 10:00 a.m., an email popped up. “Mandatory all-hands meeting. Executive Conference Room, effective immediately.” I grabbed my notepad. Habit. I walked with my team to the top floor glass room. I tried not to look anxious. My hands shook. My stomach knew. It twisted into a cold knot.
Inside, people sat like statues. Stiff. Unsure. Amelia Thorne walked in. Our MD. Her face was cold. She had a will of iron. Two HR reps were behind her. They moved like shadows. Amelia wore her charcoal suit. Hair pulled tight. That cold half-smile. Always unsettling.
“Thank you for being here,” she started. Her voice was calm. Sharp as a razor. “We’ve made hard choices. This is about team output.” Then, her eyes. They locked on mine. “Miss Lyra Thorne,” she said slowly. Each word cut the air. “Your role is not aligned. It does not meet our goals. Your job is terminated. Now.”
Silence. Just silence. It hurt. My heartbeat sounded like a bomb. My face went numb. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t swallow. Nobody looked at me. Not one colleague. Not Sarah from accounting, who cried in my office. Not Ben, who I helped fix a big bug. Not Fiona, my desk-mate for three years. They stared at their laps. Like kids wanting to vanish.
“You may collect your belongings,” Amelia kept going. Her voice was on the next slide. Like printer maintenance. Not crushing a person’s dignity.
I stood up. My legs betrayed me. I trembled. Every step to the exit. Like wading through wet cement. I opened the door. Cold hallway. Then I saw him. Mr. Gareth. The janitor. Sixties. Thin. White hair. Always polite. Mostly unseen. He stood at the hall’s end. Mop cart beside him. Hands folded. Waiting. For me. His eyes met mine. No pity. Just calm. He knew.
I tried to smile. My lips quivered. He walked over. Slow. Sure. Reached into his worn grey uniform pocket. His hand came out. Closed. He opened it. I saw it. A small, brassy golden key. A bit rusty. Like from an attic. Or a storybook. He held it in his palm. Like it was holy.
“It’s time, Lyra,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. Clear.
I blinked. “Time for what, Mr. Gareth?”
He smiled. Soft. The kind that knows things. “To breathe, Lyra. To finally breathe.”
I used to think crayons were magic. Five years old. Mum gave me a small cardboard box. Wax crayons. From a small store in Yorkshire. Dull tips. Smelled faintly of wax. No brand. Gold to me. Pure gold.
I’d sit on our cold wooden floor. Tiny cottage. Sketch anything. Hills I’d never seen. Castles from fairy tales. Beasts from books. My parents were simple. Mum worked at a laundry. Dad, a plumber. Odd shifts. They loved me. But not in a dreaming way. Their love was bills. Worry. Fear of risk.
“You draw nice, lass,” Dad said once. I looked at a sketch on the fridge. “But art doesn’t fill your belly, Lyra. You need a steady job. Something sure.” I didn’t get “sure” then. It just felt heavy. Now I get it.
Ten years old. My bedroom walls. Covered in sketches. I used everything. Invoice backs. Old newspapers. Brown paper bags. I drew late at night. Dim desk lamp. Wobbly shade. I felt alive when I drew. Like I could breathe. Deeper. Wider. I belonged somewhere. Even just on paper.
Secondary school. Miss Aris. My teacher. She pulled my parents aside. Parent-teacher night. I sat outside. I listened. She told them I had real talent. Scholarships were possible. Art could be more. My eye, she said, could go far. Mum thanked her. Politely. Stiffly. Dad didn’t say much. Car ride home was silent. Then, he asked suddenly. “Does it matter, Lyra? Do you want to end up broke? Living off charity? Do you want to be 30 and still live in our small house?” That night, I put my sketchbook away. For a week. I didn’t draw a line. It felt like holding my breath underwater. Days passed. Slow suffocation.
In high school, I worked part-time. At a small café. Saved money for uni. I chose Economics. It was safe. Everyone said it had a future. “You can always draw on weekends.” But I didn’t. Most weekends, I was too tired. Or too guilty. I was twenty years old. I had an Economics degree. A small scholarship. An internship at an investment bank. I gained my family’s approval. I lost pieces of myself.
Once, during Easter break. I visited a small art gallery. City centre. I walked past canvases. The paint was thick. Like frosting. Colours leapt off walls. I stood in front of one abstract piece. So long. The guard asked if I was lost. I was. I didn’t say it. But I was.
Twenty-three. I got a full-time job. Aethelred & Co. Financial analysis. Full benefits. Steady pay. A cubicle. My name on a placard. Dad said, “Now that’s something to be proud of.” I smiled. Inside, something small. Bright. It flickered. Then dimmed.
When I first walked into Aethelred & Co.’s glass building. I thought maybe. Just maybe. I’d made peace with my choices. All glass and steel. It reflected the London sky. Nothing to hide. Inside, it smelled of new carpet. Drive. Polished surfaces. Quiet lifts. Perfect people. Pressed shirts. Fancy shoes. My cubicle was small. Analysis department. View of a brick wall. Photocopiers jammed once a day. My job: wrestling spreadsheets. Forecasting markets. Sitting in meetings. Men. Tight smiles. Tighter suits. Arguing numbers. Cost cutting. No one mentioned beauty. Or making things. Or soul. Still. I told myself. This is adulthood. This is success.
But the itch. In my fingers. I couldn’t stop it. Lunch breaks. I started sneaking out. To the back garden. A quiet patch of grass. Three old stone benches. Nobody used them. I kept a small sketchbook. Tucked in my bag. The pages were soft. Worn. There, under an old oak tree. I let my hand remember. What my heart almost forgot. I sketched the building’s sharp lines. Sunlight danced on the pavement. Slumped posture of someone checking their phone. I didn’t draw with purpose. I drew to survive.
I met Mr. Gareth there. He was pushing a mop bucket. He saw me. He stopped. Leaned on the handle. Tilted his head toward my sketchbook. “You’ve got that light,” he said. His voice was hoarse. But kind. “My wife, Mrs. Elara. She drew like that.” I didn’t know what to say. Nobody in the office spoke to Mr. Gareth. Most didn’t even know his name. But I nodded. It was enough.
From then on, we talked. Every few days. Our paths crossed. He told me about Mrs. Elara. His late wife. She was an amateur painter. Never sold her work. Never cared if it was good. She painted because she had to. Because, Mr. Gareth said, “it was the only way she could breathe.”
“She set up a little studio,” he told me once. “An old shed behind our house in Hampstead. Said it had the best natural light. I never dared step inside after she passed. Couldn’t.”
I listened. That was all. Just listened. I told him bits about myself. Drawing on paper bags. Art program acceptance. Turned it down. Never told anyone at work I owned a pencil. He never judged. Never called me foolish. He just said, “Mrs. Elara would’ve liked you.”
Years passed. Our chats became my anchor. The only real moments in days of boring work talk. Fake smiles. My co-workers. They barely noticed me. Unless they needed a report fixed. Or a file found. I was dependable. Quiet. Unseen. Just how Amelia Thorne liked her staff. But Mr. Gareth saw me. Not the employee. Not the spreadsheet girl. Me. Sometimes I think he knew before I did. Something inside me was dying. Quietly. Slowly. Someday, I’d need a way back.
I used to count the windows across from mine. Fifty-two. Each a square of someone else’s life. Other people. Other dreams. Clicking away behind glass. I wondered if they ever looked back. Maybe I’d stopped being seen long ago.
Three years ago. Things at Aethelred & Co. changed. “Restructuring.” More meetings. Tighter deadlines. Fewer people. Survivors. They didn’t celebrate. I worked harder. Smiled less. Aged faster. I was one of them. “Lucky.”
Amelia Thorne. Always unpleasant. After layoffs, she grew sharper. Like she tasted blood. She wanted more. Her eyes. They scanned every room. Like a predator. Looking for the slowest. She chose me. I don’t know why. She called me out in meetings. Said I missed the “big picture.” Even when I wasn’t presenting. She copied top bosses. On small errors. Things that didn’t matter. I got them right. Never a word. Silence. Her weapon. I stupidly took it. I told myself. She’s stressed. Everyone’s under pressure. Work harder. She’ll back off. It didn’t matter. How early I came. How late I stayed. How perfect those awful spreadsheets were. She kept coming. I kept shrinking.
My sketchbook. Once safe in my bag. Buried. Bottom of a drawer. I hadn’t opened it in months. Every time I thought about drawing. I heard Dad’s voice. “Art won’t fill your belly, Lyra.”
Mornings. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Barely recognized the woman. Hollow cheeks. Tired eyes. The suit fit too well. I wore it too long. I traded color for rules. Breath for numbers. Somewhere along the line.
I started eating lunch alone. Not because I wanted to. No one noticed when I stopped going to the breakroom. My voice grew quiet. My laugh disappeared. I started to disappear.
Mr. Gareth noticed. He didn’t say much at first. He just watched me. In the hallway. One day, he stopped. “You’re walking like you’ve got chains around your ankles.” I gave a weak smile. “Just tired, Mr. Gareth.” He didn’t smile back. “No, Lyra. You’re not tired. It’s something heavier.”
I wanted to cry then. Right there. In front of the janitor. His mop. His eyes saw too much. But I didn’t. I swallowed it. Like always. I walked away.
I don’t remember much of the walk back to my desk. Just the cold hum of bright lights. My heels clicking. Too loud. My name still hung in the air. Like a bruise. Lyra Thorne. Fired. Now. Like a spreadsheet. Reviewed. Useless. Deleted.
A cardboard box. Already there. Edge of my desk. HR was so quick. Someone even started packing for me. My framed photo of Mum. A ceramic mug, “I Need My Space.” My little plant. I kept it alive for four winters. My sketchbook. Dusty. Untouched. Still closed. I stood there for a long moment. Just staring. At the items. Of a life. I didn’t belong to.
Around me. People typed. Like nothing happened. No eye contact. No goodbyes. That was the worst. Not the job. Not Amelia’s smug voice. The silence. Thirty people. Pretending I never existed.
I placed the last few items in the box. Lifted it. My arms. I walked down the main hallway. One last time. Each step. Heavier. I didn’t know where I was going. Home? Car? Some dark place for unseen women?
Then I saw him. Mr. Gareth. Just past the hallway bend. Next to his mop cart. Watching me. He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t ask what happened. He knew. He walked slowly. Gently. Took the box. Set it on a bench by the wall. Steady hand. Reached into his worn grey uniform pocket. Pulled out something small. A key. Old. Brassy gold. A bit rusty. Like from an attic. Or a storybook. He held it in his palm. Like it was holy.
“It’s time, Lyra,” he said. His voice was soft. Hoarse. Firm.
I blinked. Confused. “Time for what, Mr. Gareth?”
He smiled. Gentle. Weathered. “To breathe, Lyra. Mrs. Elara always told me. Breath ain’t just lungs. It’s soul. That studio. It’s been waiting for you. Too long.”
My throat tightened. “A studio? Mrs. Elara’s?”
He nodded. Handed me a folded paper. An address. Careful, blocky writing. “14 Willow Creek Lane, Hampstead.”
I looked at the key. Then back at him. “I… I don’t get it.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. His eyes met mine. No pity. No sadness. Just calm. Something else. Absolute trust. “Not yet.”
I stood there. Frozen. The key was warm in my hand. Like it waited for my palm. All this time. No one ever gave me anything like this. Not a key. Not trust. Not belief.
Mr. Gareth smiled. Soft. Experienced. “It’s yours now. Mrs. Elara would’ve wanted it that way.” He didn’t wait for thanks. No big speech. He turned. Pushed his cart. Down the hallway. Disappeared. Like always. Quiet. Constant. Kind.
And me. I stood there. Clutching a key. To a place I’d never been. But somehow. It felt like home.
Just then, Amelia Thorne’s sharp voice cut the hush. From behind me. “Miss Thorne. I thought I made it clear you should collect your belongings quickly.”
I turned. Faced her. Amelia stood. Arms crossed. Her icy gaze swept over me. Landed on the cardboard box. Mr. Gareth’s hand. Still holding the key. Her eyes narrowed. Disgusted. Looking at him.
“I’m going,” I said. My voice still trembled. I tried to steady it. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“No need to be rude, Lyra,” Amelia countered. A disdainful smirk. “You’re hardly our employee anymore, are you? It seems you’re seeking sympathy. From those… less fortunate.” She glanced at Mr. Gareth. Her eyes were full of cold scorn.
Blood rushed to my face. “Mr. Gareth is not ‘less fortunate’,” I said. Struggling to control the anger. “He’s a kind man. Something you clearly don’t understand.”
“Oh, this feeling,” Amelia sighed. She shook her head. “That’s why you never fit in here, Lyra. The money world. It doesn’t care for crayons. Or talks with janitors. I need sharp people. Ruthless people. Cold choices. No soft feelings.”
She stepped closer. The space shrank. “I once had hope for you, Lyra. You had potential. But you’re too soft. Too easily swayed by things that don’t matter.” She looked straight into my eyes. Her voice dropped. Almost a whisper. Full of power. “Where do you think you’ll go? Back to that dusty village? Paint silly flowers for pennies? That’s a dream. A false one.”
My fist tightened around the key. I stared into Amelia’s eyes. I saw hate. And a flicker. Something like fear. Fear of anything she couldn’t control.
“You know nothing about me, Amelia,” I said. My voice. Suddenly clear. Strong. I even surprised myself. “And you know even less about what I’m going to do. This isn’t the end. This is the start.”
Amelia laughed. Dry. Dismissive. It echoed in the empty hallway. “A start to failure, my dear. Wake up. This world. It’s not for dreamers.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I replied. I lifted the key slightly. So she could see. “Your world isn’t. But mine is. And I will breathe in it.”
I turned my back on Amelia. I didn’t look at her again. I walked away. I left her sneering words. The haunting silence of ex-colleagues. Mr. Gareth stood there. He smiled gently. A silent, encouraging nod. I didn’t say anything. I just returned his nod. At that moment. No fear. I felt free.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on my bed’s edge. The key was still in my hand. Its worn metal pressed gently. I must’ve turned it over a hundred times. Like holding it long enough. It might whisper clarity. “Severance pay. Unemployment forms. Rent…” My practical brain screamed. “Focus on survival.” But the rest of me. The part I thought was silent. Whispered something softer. “Go.”
Around midnight. I got in my old hatchback. I drove. London streets were empty. Rain still trailed. Slow. Lazy lines. Street lamps passed like ghosts. I followed Mr. Gareth’s directions. Left on Maple Street. Right past the old train depot. Down a quiet street in Hampstead. Sagging porches. Sleeping houses.
14 Willow Creek Lane. A modest home. Small front yard. A crooked mailbox. A garden gnome, one eye missing. It looked plain. Easy to forget. But at the end of the gravel path. Behind the main house. Stood a small, detached building. Faded blue siding. A slanted roof. A warm yellow porch light. It glowed faintly. Above its door.
I stepped out of the car. Approached slowly. Key clutched tight. The lock was stubborn. I had to jiggle it twice. It clicked softly. The door creaked open. I stepped inside.
The air smelled of old paint. Cedar. A hint of dried herbs. It was a single room. Maybe classroom size. But vast. Sunlight must’ve poured in the daytime. Through tall windows. Now, gauzy, old curtains. Wooden shelves lined the walls. Cluttered. Jars of dry brushes. Half-used paint tubes. Sketchbooks stacked like diaries. A canvas stood in the center. Covered by a sheet. I didn’t touch it. Instead, I let my fingers brush. Along the worn workbench. Over dusty charcoal pencils. A folded apron. A cracked ceramic mug. Paint still clung to the rim. This place. Not just a room. A life. Paused mid-breath.
On the table. Tucked under a big button jar. I found a small envelope. My name. “Lyra.” Written in slanted, careful script. Inside, a letter. Paper yellowed. Ink faded.
“Dearest Lyra,
If you’re reading this, Gareth found you. You got that light in your eyes. The one I had. A small flame. Smoldering. Under the ashes of what this world calls ‘reality’.
I always believed this studio had a soul. These walls. They soaked up every brushstroke. Every sigh. Every joy. Every frustration. And they give it back. Tenfold. When I was gone. I couldn’t bear for Gareth to come in here. Pain. Too much. But I left it. Waiting.
When Gareth told me ’bout the young woman. Secret sketchbook. How you saw the world. Different eyes. I knew. I knew you were the one. To bring new breath here. Not charity, Lyra. Recognition. You are an artist. Even if this world tries to tell you differently.
Life’s too short. To live someone else’s dream. Breathe, Lyra. Paint. Live.
With all my love and hope,
Elara.”
I sank into the nearest chair. My chest heaving. A strange mix of grief. For a woman I never met. Something else. Scary close to hope. I sat there in silence. For a long while. Then, without thinking. I reached for a pad in the drawer. My hands moved. Shaking slightly. I found charcoal. Cracked. Still usable. I turned to a fresh page. I drew a line. It was jagged. Too hard. Not perfect. But it was mine. First time in years. I felt like I was breathing. Again.
It started with one line. Then another. And another. Every morning. Back to Elara’s studio. Like it was church. The sun poured in. Tall windows. Dust motes danced. Like whispers from her past. I didn’t plan what I drew. I just let my hands remember.
First, it felt like exhaling. After holding my breath for years. I drew what I saw. Cracked teacups. Wildflowers from the tiny garden. Mr. Gareth’s gentle back. Watering tomatoes. I filled page after page. Sometimes nonsense. Sometimes strong anger. Some I tore up. Before they dried. Others I kept. Taped to the wall. Little affirmations. You are still here. You still matter.
Mr. Gareth would stop by. Now and then. Sometimes with a warm bacon sandwich. Sometimes nothing. Just his quiet presence. He never interrupted me. He just sat in the corner. Sometimes hummed. Low and tuneless. Like a heartbeat.
“Your cheeks have more colour, Lyra,” he said once. Handing me warm peppermint tea.
“I think it’s charcoal dust,” I laughed. Wiping a smudge.
He smiled. Gently. “No. It’s something else.”
I wasn’t earning anything yet. From my art. Severance pay from Aethelred & Co. was enough. For a while. I dipped into savings. Money I thought for a rainy day. Guess it arrived. Still, fear. Always fear. Wasting time. Running out of money. This fragile, beautiful thing. It would disappear.
But every time doubt crept in. I went to the corner. Elara’s old smock still hung. On a hook. I touched the worn cloth. Stained reds. Blues. Greens. It reminded me. Someone lived here before. And she dared.
The first time I sold a piece. Almost an accident. Mr. Gareth’s granddaughter, Astrid. She came by one afternoon. With her newborn. I sketched the baby’s profile. Just practice. She looked. Asked if she could buy it. “It’s just a sketch,” I said. Embarrassed. “It’s him,” she said. Her eyes were shining. “That’s enough.” She paid me £50. I cried after she left. Not for the money. Because someone looked at something I made. Saw worth. It changed something inside me.
Word spread. Slowly but surely. Astrid told her friends. I posted a few things online. Local social media. I created a simple website. Nothing fancy. Just a portfolio. And a contact form. Orders trickled in. Pet portraits. Nursery art. Illustrations for someone’s self-published poetry. I started saying “yes.” To things I’d laughed at. A mural for a café in Notting Hill. A painting of someone’s backyard. A logo design for a bakery. I was learning to live. By brushstroke. By colour. By gut feeling.
Six months. A small list of returning clients. I was making enough to cover studio rent. Yes, I insisted on paying Mr. Gareth. He grumbled every time. I handed him the envelope. I bought new supplies. Painted walls soft cream. Installed brighter lights. But I left the essence. Untouched. Elara is still here. In the quiet corners. The room held warmth. Like a memory.
On the shelf above the workbench. I placed a photo. Found buried. In one of her sketchbooks. Black and white. Her laughing. Radiant. Before a canvas. Her hands covered in paint. Some days. I’d whisper to it. Just to say thank you. Just so she knew.
Fear. It never completely left me. It clung to the edges. Especially during quiet weeks. But every time I held a pencil. I felt stronger. I wasn’t where I wanted to be. But for the first time. I wasn’t running from who I was. And that was enough.
Two years passed. The studio became my world. Lyra Thorne’s name. It started appearing in local newsletters. Gallery corners in London. Modest blurb. “Charming local artist known for evocative line work and emotion-driven portraits.” I laughed the first time. I read that. Me? Known? Quiet girl in cubicle? Imagined such a thing?
Enough work now. I needed help. Admin. Scheduling. A student intern. From Central Saint Martins. Came twice a week. I built a diverse client list. Shipped art. Across three London boroughs. Had three cafés. My murals on their walls. Nothing flashy. Nothing easy. But it was mine. All of it. Every brushstroke. It led back to him.
Mr. Gareth still came. Less frequent now. His knees bothered him. Winter air made his joints ache. But when he visited. He walked around the studio. Like a man visiting a chapel. I think in his mind. It still belonged to Mrs. Elara. In a way, it did. And maybe now. It belonged to us both.
One morning. I was rearranging supplies. I found a photograph. Tucked in an old drawer. I hadn’t opened it for months. Small. Creased. Black and white. A younger Mr. Gareth. Mrs. Elara. Standing beside a lake. In the Lake District. Arms wrapped around each other. Smiling. So natural. It took my breath. They must’ve been in their forties. He looked relaxed. She looked radiant. Cheeks full of joy. Hands smudged with paint. As always. So much life. In that photo. So much loss. Now she was gone.
An idea took hold. It wasn’t ordered. It wasn’t paid for. No deadline. But I knew. The moment I touched the paper. It might be the most important thing. I’d ever make.
For weeks. Between orders. Online art workshops. I worked on the painting. Secretly. I used every method I knew. Poured every part of myself. I didn’t copy the photo. I reimagined it. I painted Mr. Gareth and Mrs. Elara. As they might be older now. Wrinkles deeper. Hair whiter. But together. Sitting on that lakeside bench. Her hand in his. Still painting. Still laughing. Still whole.
The day I finished. I cried. Not sad tears. Something else. Deeper. Like peace. Like honor.
I called Mr. Gareth. Told him I had something to show him. He arrived. Wearing his best jacket. The brown corduroy one. Elbow patches. His hands trembled slightly. Holding the warm mug of tea. I handed it to him. I led him to the back room. Of the studio. The finished painting stood. Covered by a linen cloth.
“I have a gift for you,” I said. My voice trembled too.
He looked at me. Tired but kind eyes. “Lyra, you don’t owe me anything.”
“I know,” I said. Smiling softly. “But I owe her.”
I pulled the cloth away. Mr. Gareth stared. His body went still. Like even a breath might shatter. His eyes welled with tears. Then they overflowed. He reached forward. Not to touch the canvas. But to steady himself. Against the rough wooden table. “How,” he whispered. My voice choked. “How did you know?”
“I found the photo,” I said quietly. “The rest was imagination and thanks.”
He nodded. Unable to speak. We stood in silence. The painting glowed. Beneath the skylight. Mrs. Elara’s eyes sparkled. That mischievous joy. I imagined she carried her whole life. And Mr. Gareth. He looked like the man I knew. Just a little more at peace. As if a burden lifted.
After a long pause. He turned to me. Voice trembling. “You didn’t just give me a painting, Lyra,” he said. “You gave her back to me.”
I reached out. Took his calloused hand. “And you gave me a future.”
These days. I wake up before the sun. Not because I have to. Because I want to. The studio is quietest. In the early morning. Before emails. Before orders. Before the world remembers I exist. I make coffee. Pull on my paint-streaked hoodie. Sit by the tall window. With a fresh canvas. My soul finally knows peace.
Sometimes. I still hear echoes. Of that office life. Keyboard clicks. Amelia’s flat tone. The weight of being unseen. But they’ve grown quieter. Like voices from a house I don’t live in. I haven’t spoken to anyone from Aethelred & Co. Since I walked out. No one reached out. No apologies. No goodbyes. Honestly. I don’t need it. What I have now. It’s better.
A few weeks ago. I got a call. From a children’s book publisher. Well-known. They’d seen my online portfolio. One illustration shared. In a parenting group. It made a buzz. They offered a long-term contract. To illustrate a full series. Not just one book. A whole series. When I hung up. I sat in the middle of the studio floor. Surrounded by brushes. Fabric. Scraps of ideas. And I laughed. A big. Open. Ridiculous laugh. It echoed off the walls. Like a joyful choir. I didn’t even realize I was crying. Until I tasted salt. On my lips. Mrs. Elara would’ve loved that moment. Mr. Gareth too.
I still keep her photo. On the shelf. Next to fresh brushes. A tiny sketch of the old oak tree. I used to sit under. Behind the Aethelred building. Full circle. But better. The tree lives only in memory now. And that memory. It’s mine.
Last week. A young woman named Xanthe stopped by the studio. She’d followed my work online. Asked if I took apprentices. She looked like me. Years ago. Eyes full of something wild. Quiet. Fingers fidgeting. Her thrift store sweater sleeve. I said “yes.” Because someone made space for me. Now. It’s my turn.
That night. Alone in the studio. I caught sight of my reflection. In the tall window. My hair was pulled into a messy bun. Paint on my cheeks. My fingertips. Even my neck. And I looked alive. Not perfect. Not rich. Not famous. But seen.
Mr. Gareth told me once: “The right doors open at the right time. But it’s up to us. To have the courage to walk through them.” Back then. I didn’t know what that meant. Now I do. Sometimes the door is real. Old and rusted. Behind a quiet house on Willow Creek Lane. Sometimes it’s a canvas. Or a sketchbook. Or a single trembling line. Drawn in the dark. But always. It’s the moment you stop asking for permission to be who you are.
The world didn’t give me that key. Mr. Gareth did. Mrs. Elara did. And now I hold it. In my hands. Not with fear. But with purpose. Because I know who I am now.
I’m Lyra Thorne. I’m an artist. And I’m home.