Stella walked along the walls, studying the photographs. Some were technically excellent. Some were reaching for something they hadn’t quite grasped. All of them showed evidence of trying. Learning. Getting better.
“And look—” Bea pulled open a door at the back of the room. “Actual darkroom. With actual developing equipment.”
The smell hit Stella first — sharp chemicals, familiar and somehow comforting. Enlargers, developing trays, drying racks. Everything you needed to watch an image emerge from nothing.
“Students can use this?” Stella asked.
“During lab hours. And Mr. Reeves gives keys to serious students.” Bea’s grin widened. “He’d definitely gonna give you one.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know your work. I’ve seen what you can do.”
“That’s different. You’re family. You have to say nice things.”
“I absolutely do not have to say nice things. Ask anyone.” Bea pulled her back into the main room. “Mr. Reeves is probably around here somewhere. He basically lives in the art wing during summer. Let me see if I can find him?—”
“Bea, you don’t have to?—”
But Bea was already gone, disappeared through a side door with the determination of someone on a mission. Stella stood alone in the photography lab, surrounded by other people’s images, trying to imagine her own work on these walls.
It felt presumptuous. It felt terrifying. It felt like something she wanted more than she’d let herself admit.
“You must be the cousin.”
Stella turned. A man stood in the doorway, paint-stained jeans, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. His coffee mug said “I TEACH ART. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?”
“I’m Mr. Reeves.” He crossed to her, not rushing. “Stella Walsh, right? Tyler’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen that man since the day he walked across the stage, but I’ve followed his work in the journals. I always wondered if he’d ever come back to show these kids how it’s done.” Mr. Reeves paused for a moment. “And I saw your display at the festival.”
Stella’s stomach tightened. “You did?”
“‘The Shack Breathes.’” He said the title like he was tasting it. “That was yours.”
“Yes.”
“The Bernie triptych—horror, panic, victory. That was yours.”
“Yes.”
“And the dining room composition. The lunch rush. Everyone in motion but somehow it all held together like a painting.”
Stella didn’t know what to say. She nodded.
Mr. Reeves was quiet for a moment, looking at her the way she imagined he looked at student work when he was deciding what to say. Not judging. Evaluating.
“There was one shot,” he said finally. “Your great-grandmother at the grill. She wasn’t looking at the camera—she was watching the dining room like it was a show only she could see. And you caught something in her expression that most people would have missed entirely.”
“Quiet amusement,” Stella said softly. “That’s what I called it.”
“That’s what it was.” He nodded slowly. “Documentary photography is about seeing the story underneaththe routine. Most students take years to understand that. You already do.”
Stella felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“When you enroll—” He paused. “You are enrolling? Bea made it sound like a certainty.”
