I squeeze her arm before I turn and head back toward the entrance. My errand is done. I can check this box and move on to the next one, the endless list that seems to regenerate faster than I can work through it.
But I'm not in a hurry to leave. The center has a way of slowing me down, drawing me back into the reason we built it.
The children's art display catches me as I pass.
This wall of color, paintings and drawings tacked up with careful attention, each one labeled with a name and an age in a staff member's neat handwriting. A purple elephant with six legs. A house that's almost entirely windows, light streaming through every one. A self-portrait where the artist—Maya, age 7—gave herself butterfly wings in iridescent blue.
I slow without meaning to, pulled by what unselfconscious creation looks like. That's what I love about this place. The permission it gives for kids to express themselves and their world however they like. These kids don't worry about composition or color theory or whether their work will sell. They just make things because making things feels good.
Movement down the hall draws my eye. I glance that way and see two figures standing near the end of the display. A woman, one tall and contained, and a small boy beside her pressed closeagainst her leg. The woman's posture is familiar. The contained way she holds herself, spine straight, shoulders precise. Brunette hair swept into a smooth chignon. Modestly dressed, in a long blouse and loose pants, with an autumn shawl draped around her shoulders.
Nadiyah?
She turns her head at that same moment, her dark eyes finding me across the distance. That reserved smile she wears like armor, the one that warmed almost imperceptibly yesterday when she offered to come on the wedding day, curves her mouth now.
What is she doing here?
Curiosity pulls me across the hallway before I've consciously decided to approach. The boy at her side is small, no more than four years old. He’s got dark curly hair and eyes the color of strong coffee, watchful and serious. He holds her hand with both of his, pressed against her leg the way children do when the world feels too big.
"Hi, Nadiyah."
She pivots toward me as I approach them. There's a fleeting beat of awkwardness, then her reserved expression shifts into a kind of warmth I haven’t seen in her at the atelier. Maybe because she's outside of work. Outside of the professional context where we've always existed to each other.
"Ms. Ross." She sounds surprised, although her expression gives away nothing. "What a lovely coincidence."
I tilt my head, glancing from her to the boy, who's staring up at me in cautious silence. "Do you live around here?"
"Yes. Just around the corner." Her hand settles on the boy's shoulder, gentle. "This is my son, Sami. My mother usually watches him while I work, but since I have the day off, I thought I'd bring him to see the children's art." She glances down at him, her expression softly maternal, unguarded in a way I haven'tseen from her. "He's at that age. Always wanting to do things, make things."
I crouch down, bringing myself to his level. "Hi, Sami." I keep my voice soft, unthreatening. "I'm Avery."
He presses closer to his mother's leg, those shy, dark eyes studying me with an intensity that seems too old for his face.
"It's all right, mon coeur," Nadiyah murmurs. French, gentle, encouraging.
His grip on her hand loosens slightly. "Hello," he says, barely above a whisper. His voice carries a faint French accent, his words carefully pronounced.
I smile, staying where I am, giving him space. "Do you like the pictures?"
He responds with a small nod.
"Which one is your favorite?"
He hesitates, glancing up at his mother for permission. She inclines her head in approval, and he turns back to the wall, considering with the seriousness of a gallery critic evaluating a retrospective. Then his free hand rises, pointing to a painting that depicts an explosion of orange and gold that might be a sunset or might be a fire, bold strokes laid down with obvious joy.
"That one," he says. Stronger now. More certain.
"I like that one too." I study it with him, the way the orange deepens into crimson at the edges. "All that color. It makes you feel something, doesn't it? Like warmth, or excitement."
His eyes widen slightly.
"Do you like to draw?" I ask.
Another nod, more emphatic this time. He leans forward on his toes, his grip on Nadiyah's hand loosening another degree.
"What do you like to draw?"
"Animals." The word comes out with more confidence now. "Birds. And boats. I like boats."
