Morning spilled reluctantly into Ashbourne, the sun's light diffused into pale streaks through the stubborn fog that clung to the town like a memory unwilling to fade. From her perch by the gallery window, Ava Carter cradled her mug of coffee, staring out at the slow, sleepy rhythm of the world beyond. The salt-tinged breeze whispered through the cracks in the glass, its faint chill seeping into the room as if to remind her that nothing here could ever be entirely warm.
Her gaze snagged on the gallery's sign, Carter & Co. Fine Arts, swaying forlornly on rusted hinges. The once-bold letters, painted by her mother's sure hand, had surrendered to years of salt spray and neglect. Ava's chest tightened as the wind coaxed a faint creak from the wood, the sound as hollow as her conviction.
Her mother had loved this place, had poured her spirit into its walls. Now, the gallery stood like a house of cards, fragile and forgotten. Ava wasn't sure she had the strength to rebuild it.
Still, she found herself gripping a paint scraper with shaking fingers, her grip as tenuous as her resolve. She knelt by the front door and began to chip away at the peeling trim, each flake falling like brittle echoes of what had once been.
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Later That Day
The rhythmic scrape of metal against wood echoed through the empty gallery, filling the void with its steady, mournful cadence. Each stroke stripped away a little more of the past, revealing the raw, splintered wood beneath. Ava's shoulders ached, but she welcomed the physical discomfort—it drowned out the cacophony of doubt clamoring in her mind.
She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice the bell above the door jingle until a shadow stretched across the floorboards.
Ava turned sharply, expecting to see Lucy. Instead, it was him—the man from the night before. Ethan Bennett.
He stood in the doorway, holding two steaming paper cups, his guitar case slung over one shoulder like a half-forgotten burden. His expression was soft, the edges of his smile tugged upward in an almost boyish charm.
"You left the door open," he said, stepping inside.
"I didn't realize I had," Ava replied, her voice sharper than she intended.
He didn't flinch, just held out one of the cups. "You looked like you could use this. Consider it an apology for barging in last night."
Ava hesitated. The scent of coffee curled into the air between them, warm and inviting, but she didn't trust gestures that came so freely. Finally, she reached for the cup, her fingers brushing against his briefly. "Thanks. But...why?"
Ethan shrugged, the movement casual but deliberate. "Seemed like the right thing to do." He took a sip from his own cup and glanced around the gallery. "So, this is it, huh? Carter & Co."
She frowned. "You've heard of it?"
"I asked around after I left last night," he admitted, setting his coffee on the counter. "People here talk. Your mom was kind of a legend, from what I hear."
The words hit Ava like a slap—sharp, unexpected. She wasn't sure whether it was the sting of pride or grief that followed. "She was," Ava said softly, her voice almost swallowed by the room.
Ethan studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering like he wanted to ask more. Instead, he turned his attention to the walls. "So, what's the plan? You're bringing it back to life?"
Ava snorted, the sound brittle. "I'm just trying to keep it from falling apart."
"That's not nothing," Ethan said, his tone light but edged with sincerity. "It's a start."
Ethan didn't leave right away. Instead, he picked up a broom and began sweeping the dusty floor, ignoring Ava's protests that she didn't need help. "Can't let you tackle this place alone," he said with a grin that suggested he wasn't taking no for an answer.
They worked in companionable silence, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of static from the old radio Ava had turned on earlier. Ethan hummed along to the faint strains of a classic rock ballad, his voice low and soothing.
Ava found herself sneaking glances at him, trying to make sense of this stranger who had so effortlessly inserted himself into her day. There was something about the way he moved, unhurried but deliberate, as if he were trying to ground himself in the moment.
When they finished, Ethan dusted off his hands and leaned against the counter. "You know, I think this place has potential."
Ava looked around, taking in the scuffed floors, the bare walls, the scattered remnants of her mother's legacy. The light streaming through the windows softened the edges of the chaos, casting it in a golden glow.
"Maybe," she said, the word tentative but not dismissive.
Ethan smiled, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder. "That's good enough for now."
As he walked toward the door, he paused, his hand resting on the frame. "If you ever need a hand with this—or anything else—I'm around. Just say the word."
Ava watched him leave, the bell jingling softly as the door swung shut behind him. The room felt quieter without him, but not emptier.
That night, as the stars began to scatter across the sky, Ava sat cross-legged on the gallery floor, surrounded by remnants of the past. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind, a melody she hadn't heard in too long: "Art doesn't just reflect life, Ava—it reveals what we're too afraid to say out loud."
She opened her sketchbook and began to draw. Her pencil moved instinctively, capturing jagged lines and fractured shapes that mirrored the conflict within her. She drew not what she saw, but what she felt—a tangle of loss and hope, shadow and light.
When she finally put the pencil down, her hands were smudged with graphite, her heart racing with a strange exhilaration. For the first time in months, she felt something stir within her.
The gallery wasn't just a burden anymore. It was a canvas.