The golden light deepens as the sun dips lower, turning the snow amber and the pines almost black in contrast. I have to force my eyes away from it to pull my phone out of my pocket and call an Uber Black that will be here in two minutes.
Willow leans her head briefly against my shoulder, our joined hands swinging between us. “You’re going to like it,” she sings, skipping ahead. “It’s not perfect, but it feels like me.”
“I like anything that feels like you,” I admit, surprising even myself with the honesty in it.
She tilts her head up, giving me that small, knowing smile that always knocks the air out of me.
The wind picks up, swirling fine snow around our boots. I tighten my hold on her hand, grounding both of us in the moment.
“Come on,” I murmur, sliding the phone back into my coat pocket. “Let’s go see what you’ve been hiding from me.”
She laughs softly and tugs me toward the path, boots crunching over snow. The setting sun catches in her hair, throwing sparks of light around us.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, but it feels shorter.
Willow spends half of it pointing out Christmas lights strung over the shopfronts, talking about how the city feels softer in December, and how she wants to host a winter showcase next year. Her hands move when she talks—animated, alive, painting shapes in the air. I mostly just watch.
The Uber turns down a narrow street lined with old brick buildings dressed in wreaths and warm light. The kind of street that looks like it belongs to another time. The driver slows in front of a glass storefront with a brass sign gleaming faintly under the streetlight.
The Willow Garden.
“Here,” she says, already reaching for the handle. “Oh—you’re not ready.”
“Apparently not,” I say, but she’s already out of the car, boots crunching against the snow.
I pay the driver and follow her up the short walkway. She fumbles with her keys, bouncing slightly in place like she’s trying to contain too much energy. When the lock clicks open, she glances over her shoulder, eyes bright with something childlike and fierce all at once.
“Ready?”
“Show me,” I say.
She pushes the door open.
The scent hits first—paint, paper, faint wood polish, and something floral I can’t name but know is hers. The air is warmer inside, thick with light and color.
The space is wide and open, divided by old brick pillars and hanging lights that drip soft gold over polished concrete floors. Her paintings line the walls—big, unapologetic pieces alive withmovement and color. Not the small, careful work she used to sell at fairs or hang in side galleries. These arehers.
To the right, an entire section is devoted to abstracts—swirls of gold and indigo, sharp lines softened by watercolor haze.
To the left, portraits—some familiar, some not. A small boy with honey-colored curls chasing a balloon. A woman sitting in a field of marigolds, her face turned toward a sun that isn’t there. A wolf half emerging from smoke.
In the center stands a sculpture—metal and glass interwoven, catching the light in a dozen fractured reflections. The base bears no plaque, no title. It doesn’t need one. It’s the kind of piece that demands to be felt, not explained.
Farther back, a long wooden table displays ceramic work and framed sketches—pieces from local artists, some signed in looping cursive, others anonymous. I recognize a few names—painters she’s mentored, sculptors she’s championed.The Willow Gardenisn’t just hers. She’s made it a home for everyone else who ever felt like their art didn’t belong anywhere.
She spins once in the center of the room, cheeks flushed, laughter spilling out unguarded. “Well?” she asks, breathless. “What do you think?”
I take it all in again—the way the light spills across her canvases, the soft music humming from a speaker near the desk, the little details only she would think of: the lemon-oil scent from polished wood frames, the dried lavender in a glass vase near the window, the faint brushstroke fingerprints along the doorway that she probably never noticed she left.
“It’s you,” I say finally. “All of it.”
Her smile falters, just slightly. “That’s a good thing, right?”
“It’s the best thing.”
She exhales, tension slipping from her shoulders. “I thought maybe it was too much. Too bright. Too?—”
“No, it's perfect.” I interrupt, raising an eyebrow.
