“It’s not so much about the city,” Noah says slowly, his words measured as if he’s carefully considering each one—discovering them even as he’s putting them to voice. “It’s more about the art. The museums there... the Uffizi Gallery, the Accademia... they house some of the greatest masterpieces in the world. I’ve always wanted to see them in person.”
I perk up at this. The wistful tone in his voice speaks volumes about the dreams he’s tucked away.
Paige seems equally surprised and delighted. She scoots closer on the log. “Why didn’t you take the art scholarship?” Paige asks gently, her voice soft and encouraging.
There’s a long pause, and I hold my breath, willing Noah to open up. The only sound is the soft whisper of wind through the bare branches and the distant call of a bird.
“I guess... I guess I just decided it wasn’t practical,” Noah finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Art doesn’t pay the bills, you know?”
Paige nods thoughtfully, her expression compassionate. “I can understand that. Does it make you happy, though?”
Noah looks up, meeting Paige’s eyes. For a moment, I see a flicker of the passionate, artistic soul that’s been hiding behind his practical exterior. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it did—does.”
The moment stretches between them. I feel a surge of hope. Maybe Noah didn’t need my flashback after all. If I’d been patient enough for Paige to show up, I could have avoided that whole debacle.
Their moment is interrupted by a soft chittering sound. They both look up to see a pair of playful river otters sliding down a nearby snow bank, their sleek bodies perfectly adapted to the wintery conditions. Paige laughs in delight, the sound echoing through the quiet forest.
“Oh, they’re adorable,” she exclaims, reaching for her camera again. “I didn’t know otters were active in the winter.”
Noah nods, his earlier melancholy seemingly forgotten in the face of Paige’s joy.
As they watch the otters play, I feel a swell of pride. I’ve done well today. No broken rules, no traumatized assignments. Just a little animal entertainment here and there to help things along.
When Noah and Paige finally stand to continue their journey, there’s a noticeable shift in their dynamic. I do a fist pump. They're walking closer together, their conversation flowing more easily. Noah even reaches out to steady Paige when she stumbles on a hidden root, his hand lingering on her arm.
As I move to follow them, careful to keep my distance, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m witnessing the beginning of something special. The way Noah’s eyes light up when he talks about art, the way Paige listens with genuine interest—it’s more than just a spark of attraction. It’s a meeting of kindred spirits.
I lean against a tree, watching as they disappear around a bend in the trail, their laughter drifting back to me on the winter breeze.
With a smile, I push off from the tree and follow the trail of their snowshoe prints, eager to see what happens next. After all, in matters of the heart—and in the journey of rediscovering oneself—sometimes the most magical moments are the ones you don’t plan for. I’m practically writing my dissertation as I go. This is too easy. With an assignment like Noah, I’m a shoo-in for my wings. I can’t wait to tell Henry.
I’m contemplating jetting back to the Celestial Garden when I hear Paige call out.
I hurry to catch up—a sense of something brewing that I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like.
Six
NOAH
The winter sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape as Paige and I make our way back along the trail. The air is sharp and clean, filling my lungs with each breath and making me feel more alive than I have in years. Despite the cold, I feel a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the beautiful woman walking in front of me.
“You know,” Paige says, her voice breaking through the quiet of the forest, “I’ve traveled all over the world, but there’s something special about these hills. It’s like they have their own kind of magic.”
I nod, taking in the way the late afternoon light catches on the icicles hanging from the bare branches, turning them into prisms that scatter tiny rainbows across the snow. I itch to draw one. I’ll have to before bed, or I won’t sleep. “When I was a kid, I used to come out here all the time with my sketchbook. I’d spend hours trying to capture the way the light played on the snow or how the bare trees looked against the sky.”
Paige turns to me, her blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Does anyone else in your family do art? Sculpt? Crochet? Paint chapel ceilings.” She bumps me with her hip and grins.
The question catches me off guard, stirring up memories I’ve long tried to bury.”Not really," I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“I can’t believe that.” She kicks a tree to dislodge a clump of snow from her snowshoe. “I would have thought your whole family was talented like you.”
“My parents always said art was a nice hobby, but not a real career. They wanted me to focus on practical things. I’m kind of the black sheep.”
She starts laughing. “You?”
My heart lifts. “Yes, me. Don’t I look like a rebel?” I glance down at my black coat and snow pants. I keep myself clean-shaven and my hair trimmed. When I don’t have on a coat, I usually wear a polo shirt or a casual button-up and jeans. I’m not at all the type to hop on a motorcycle and tear through town. I drive a pickup—which I’m darn proud of—but carousing isn’t in my vocabulary. I’m not even sure I could spell it correctly.
She shakes her head, and her hair bounces. It’s several shades of blonde and stunningly beautiful. I want to run my fingers through it and gently tug those curls straight, only to have them bounce back up and beg me to do it again.
