I noticed something written on the inside cover. I squinted to see the words in the dim light.
Now you can draw the sunrise.
Keep it hidden.
Sara
Just when I needed the reminder of exactly who Bastian Scott was, Sara offered it to me.
She had no way of knowing how important this would be to me.
I lifted the pencil and put it to the first blank piece of paper.
I sat there for a while, almost forgetting how to draw. How did you find inspiration in a place that sucked you dry?
Then I found it.
And I didn’t draw the sunrise.
I drew a girl at a gate.
A girl who gave me hope.
It was one of those perfect summer days. The trees were a shining, emerald green. The flowers were in full bloom.
I stood deep in the forest gathering twigs for kindling to be used in the fire. Even though the days were warmer, we still had to light fires at night to stay warm.
It had been a decent week. Uneventful, which is usually how I liked them. I taught Bible study to the children. Bastian helped. We hadn’t returned to the woods, choosing to stay at The Retreat. But the kids enjoyed having Bastian there, even if they knew better than to show it overtly.
He had thanked me for the sketchpad and pencils. I had found them at the bottom of a forgotten drawer in the gathering room. I had taken them before anyone could notice. I wasn’t sure what had come over me, but Bastian’s response to the modest gift felt good.
“Have you drawn the sunrise?” I asked him.
He gave me a strange look. “No. Not yet.”
I hadn’t pressed him further.
I felt as though I had made a new friend. One I hadn’t necessarily wanted. One that I knew I shouldn’t trust. But there was a contentment to his presence that I enjoyed. And I wasn’t the only one.
Little Rosie had become enamored with him.
I could understand her infatuation.
When I wasn’t busy with the children and my other duties, I read the scriptures. I prayed. I prepared meals. I spent time with Anne knitting a new sweater for Pastor.
The routine was the same as always. The days rolled on, one after another, but I found that I no longer craved the consistency.
Dead leaves crunched beneath my feet and I hummed under my breath as I bent over to retrieve more kindling.
Last night after, long after Mom had gone to bed, I had sat on the floor, the oil light as dim as possible but still providing light. I had torn out a few pieces of paper from the sketchpad I had given Bastian. With a pencil I had taken from the gathering room I drew a picture. The first I had completed since I was eight years old.
Unlike Bastian, I was no artist. It was a very crude and elementary depiction of buildings and cars. Of every detail from my imagination.
Of the New York City Bastian told me about that day in the garden.
And when I was finished I stared at it for a long time. Tears welled up in my eyes and I inexplicably wanted to cry.
I balled up the picture and threw it in the fire. Watching it turn to ash as I hated myself for longing for something I shouldn’t.
