She leans against me for a second, warm and small and entirely too precious. I breathe in the scent of her hair—lavender shampoo and acrylic paint.
“Daddy says you can paint anything,” she murmurs.
I laugh. “He’s biased. But I think you’re catching up fast.”
She grins at that, her pride blooming big and bright. For a moment, I just watch her. The way she squints at her own work, the way she hums under her breath as she studies every detail—it’s like looking backward through time at a younger version of myself before the gallery, before the name on the door meant pressure instead of freedom.
“You should sign it,” I say. “It’s yours.”
“Really?”
“Really. Every artist should claim what they create.”
She grabs the smallest brush from my table, dips it into black paint, and carefully signs her name at the bottom in looping letters that trail off the edge. I bite back the lump in my throat.
“Okay,” I say finally, voice softer than I mean it to be. “Now go wash your hands before you ruin your shirt—and don’t forget the sleeves.”
She giggles and darts toward the back sink, leaving a trail of tiny painty fingerprints along the counter’s edge.
I straighten, wiping my palms on my apron, when the bell over the front door jingles.
“Coming!” I call, tugging off my apron and smoothing the front of my sweater before stepping toward the main room.
The front gallery smells faintly of cedar and cinnamon. A man stands just beyond the glass door, half-shadowed by the awning lights, his shape a blur against the pale wash of snow. When I open the door, the bell gives a single, brittle chime, and he steps inside like he’s crossing some invisible threshold.
Up close, he smells faintly of old wool and winter. His coat is worn, edges fraying, the color somewhere between gray and brown—the kind of fabric that’s been through too many winters. He rocks on his heels, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can’t quite stand still, the movement rhythmic but wrong—off by half a beat, too studied to be nervous, too calm to be normal.
His gloves are still on, damp from the snow, fingers flexing against the leather as though his hands need something to do. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drift, darting over the room—past the smaller canvases, the sculptures, the photographs—to the far wall where my newest piece hangs under a cone of warm light.
His head tilts, just slightly, like he’s listening to the painting breathe. The muscles in his jaw tighten. He steps closer, clumsily, and unblinking, until his breath fogs faintly against the glass of the display frame.
“She’s… remarkable,” he says finally, his voice too soft, almost reverent. “It’s like she’s waiting for someone.”
He doesn’t turn toward me when he speaks. He just stares at her—the painted woman’s half-shadowed throat, the ghost of light over her shoulder—as if he knows her, as if she’s whispering something to him that I can’t hear.
His gloved hand lifts, hovers in the air an inch away from the painting’s surface. “You caught it,” he murmurs. “That moment before someone speaks. That ache.”
When he finally glances back at me, his pupils are wide, his smile too careful, like he’s afraid to break whatever spell he thinks he’s under. “You made this,” he says, almost accusingly. “Youhadto be the one.”
The heater hums in the corner, but suddenly the room feels colder.
I nod, masking the faint chill that moves through me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t greet you. I’m Willow. Welcome toWillow’s Garden. Can I help you?”
His grin stretches wider, almost boyish. “Help me? I can’t believe I’m evenhere.I’ve followed your work for years—online, at exhibitions. The way you paint light—it’s like it’s alive.”
I laugh politely, keeping my voice light. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”
He steps closer, eyes flicking toward the back wall—towardher. The new painting. “That one,” he breathes. “That’s her. She’s perfect.”
I hesitate. “She’s not technically for sale yet?—”
“I’ll take it,” he cuts in, pulling a checkbook from his coat like he’s been waiting for this moment. “I don’t care what it costs. She belongs with me.”
His enthusiasm edges on strange, but I’ve met plenty of passionate collectors. December brings out the intense ones. I smile, trying to keep things smooth. “Alright,” I say gently. “Let’s write it up, Mr…?”
He hesitates. “Justin. Just Justin.”
He writes the check fast, his hand trembling slightly, his eyes never leaving me. When he hands it over, his fingers brush mine—cold, clammy.
