The Colors of Healing

ing coffee and staring at the sketch she'd made the night before. It was Daniel's face, though she hadn't realized she'd captured so much of h

t event that evening-her first solo exhibition at the Greenhouse Gallery. It was the culmin

d conversation. Maya wore a simple black dress, her curls pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She m

d, pausing in front of one of Maya's pieces-a watercolor of an e

arming. Compliments still felt surreal,

stion, her gaze caught on a familia

re a tailored gray blazer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. The sigh

it a coincidence that he was here, or had he come fo

led-just a small curve of his lips, but it was enough to

ooth and steady, yet carrying

ying to sound composed. "

cing under fairy lights. "I heard about this exhibition from a colleague.

dying him. "A colleague?

on his lips. "I'm an architect. But art and architectu

answer. "That's a good way to put it. So

d to her quickly. "They're beautiful. Honest

n his tone-a quiet sincerity that made h

said softly. "T

rocess, her inspirations, and the stories behind her work. She found herself sha

favorite piece here?" Da

corner of the gallery. There, hanging in soft light, was

d Solitude. I made it on a night

nally, he said, "It's haunting. But there's hope in it too. Like th

his insight. No one had ever des

re than most people

uiet intensity. "Maybe. Or maybe your work just ha

re, the air between them cha

oached her, breaking the spell. "Maya, someone fro

el. "I have to go, but... thank

d," he said, h

since their first meeting. She didn't know what this was-this pull she felt toward him-but she kn