The Painters Muse

Luna POV

The final stroke of cobalt blue swept across the canvas, and I froze, holding my breath. It felt finished, but not in the way I'd hoped. The small, weathered boat in my painting floated gently on the waves, framed by a soft, golden morning sky. It was meant to look hopeful, resilient even, but something about it felt incomplete. The waves were too calm, the boat too still.

I let out a slow breath, setting the brush down on the edge of the easel. My eyes lingered on the painting as if staring long enough would reveal what was missing. I wanted it to be perfect, not just for me but for someone else.

Someone who might look at it and see something that mattered, something worth hanging in a gallery far away from this quiet, boring, and poor town.

But the only thing I ever seemed to capture was this place. The wide blue sea, the sleepy rhythm of life here-it followed me into everything I painted, clinging to me like the ocean air. I wiped my hands on a rag, the disappointed ache in my chest deepening.

"Luna! Breakfast is ready!"

Dad's voice carried upstairs, breaking my thoughts. I sighed, glancing one more time at the canvas before heading down.

The kitchen smelled of fried eggs and pancakes, a scent so familiar it wrapped around me like a hug. Dad stood by the gas, humming one of his old songs, his movements steady but a little slower than they used to be.

His graying hair was messy, and his broad shoulders, once so strong, now seemed a little stooped. Still, there was something unshakable about him, like the tide, always returning no matter how many times it was pulled away.

"Good morning, Dad," I greeted.

"Morning, my darling daughter," he greeted, not looking up as he flipped the eggs. "Didn't think I'd see you this early. What happened? One of your paintings kept you up all night again?"

I smiled faintly, sliding into the chair by the window. "Something like that."

He turned, setting a plate of eggs and pancakes in front of me before taking his seat across the table. "You're always painting. Always dreaming. It'll get you somewhere, Luna. I know it will."

The quiet conviction in his voice made my chest tighten. I nodded, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Dad."

Yet beneath the surface, I had my doubts. Whenever I glanced at the pile of overdue bills on the counter or saw Dad massaging his sore shoulders, the burden of my aspirations seemed selfish, even unachievable.

"I'll reveal what I've been focused on," I proposed, brushing those thoughts away. "Afterward, when it has dried."

Dad's expression lit up, and the creases in his eyes softened. "Simply don't assume I'll be one of those sophisticated reviewers. I excel at fishing, not artwork."

I chuckled, appreciating his delightful sense of humor. "Okay, Dad."

After breakfast, I returned to my room to freshen up before packing my satchel and putting my sketchbook, pencils, and several tubes of paint into my bag. The air outdoors felt cool yet held the warmth of a day that was expected to become warm. The roads of our small seaside town were coming to life, as the familiar figures went about their morning activities.

"Good morning, Luna!" shouted Señora Martinez, swiftly sweeping her porch with rapid, effective movements.

"Good morning, Señora," I said, giving a wave as I walked by.

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from the bakery, blending with the arid atmosphere. It was soothing in some sense, yet it also highlighted how rarely things altered here. I adored this town, yet at times it seemed as if the boundaries of my world were too near, the horizon perpetually just beyond my grasp.

I walked quickly down the narrow path leading from town, my pace increasing as I approached the hill. From above, I could observe the docks beneath, where the fishermen's boats sprinkled the water like little dots. The seagulls squawked above, revolving around the boats as the fishermen pulled in their morning catches.