Ava's hands were stained with paint by mid-afternoon, the blue smudges spreading like tiny constellations across her fingers. She stared at the wall she'd been working on, her brush hovering over the surface as indecision gnawed at her.
The gallery's interior was slowly transforming—cleaner, brighter—but it still didn't feel like hers. Every stroke of paint felt like she was chasing a ghost, trying to resurrect a piece of her mother she couldn't quite grasp.
Her eyes drifted to a stack of canvases leaning against the far wall, untouched since the day she'd packed them away after her mother's funeral. The weight of their presence was a constant, oppressive reminder of the life she'd left behind.
The sharp rattle of the bell above the door startled Ava, and she turned to see Lucy breezing in with the energy of someone immune to awkward silences.
"God, this place still smells like damp wood and nostalgia," Lucy said, wrinkling her nose. She dropped a bag of pastries onto the counter and leaned over to inspect Ava's work. "What are you doing, exactly? Renovating or exorcising?"
Ava gave her a half-hearted smile. "A little of both, maybe."
Lucy crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "You don't have to do this, you know. Nobody would blame you if you just sold the place and moved on."
"I'd blame me," Ava said quietly, setting her brush down.
Lucy sighed, sitting on the edge of the counter. "I get it. You think fixing this place will fix...everything else. But Ava, sometimes you can't glue the pieces back together. Sometimes they just don't fit anymore."
The words struck a nerve, and Ava bristled. "You think I don't know that?" she snapped, her voice sharper than intended. "I'm not trying to fix anything. I'm just...I'm trying to make it matter."
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the creak of the floorboards as Lucy shifted. "Okay," Lucy said finally. "But don't forget that you matter, too."
Ava didn't reply. Instead, she watched Lucy leave, her friend's words lingering in the air like smoke.
The sound of a guitar drifted through the open window later that evening, soft and unpolished, like a secret being whispered into the twilight. Ava froze, her hands still buried in the box of old gallery brochures she'd been sorting. She leaned closer to the window, the music pulling her in despite herself.
Across the street, Ethan sat on the edge of the bar's patio, his guitar resting on his lap. His fingers moved over the strings with practiced ease, the melody carrying a bittersweet undercurrent that made Ava's chest tighten.
She hadn't meant to watch, but something about the way he played—his shoulders slightly hunched, his head bowed—made it impossible to look away. He looked lost in the music, as if it were the only thing tethering him to the world.
Before she could stop herself, Ava grabbed her jacket and headed downstairs.
"Are you always this loud, or is tonight special?" Ava's voice cut through the music as she approached, her tone light but tinged with genuine curiosity.
Ethan glanced up, startled. His fingers stilled on the strings, and a sheepish grin spread across his face. "Sorry. Didn't realize I had an audience."
"I wouldn't call it an audience," Ava replied, leaning against the railing. "More like an accidental eavesdropper."
Ethan set his guitar aside and motioned for her to sit on the patio bench. "Fair enough. Want me to stop?"
Ava hesitated, then shook her head. "No. It's...nice."
He picked up the guitar again, his fingers brushing the strings with a gentler touch this time. The melody shifted, softer, more deliberate, as if he were playing just for her.
"You're good," Ava said after a while, surprising herself with the admission. "Where'd you learn?"
Ethan's smile faltered, and he looked down at the guitar. "My brother taught me," he said quietly. "He was the real talent. I just...picked up what I could."
There was something in his voice—a rawness that hinted at more than he was saying. Ava didn't press, though the unspoken weight of his words lingered between them.
"Why'd you stop painting?" Ethan asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Ava blinked, caught off guard. "What makes you think I stopped?"
"You don't talk about it," Ethan said, his gaze steady. "And there's nothing in the gallery except...paint fumes."
She looked away, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench. "It's complicated."
"I've got time," he said, his tone light but his expression serious.
Ava hesitated, the truth hovering on the edge of her tongue. But she couldn't bring herself to say it—that painting had become a reminder of everything she'd lost, that every stroke felt like a betrayal of her mother's memory.
Instead, she shrugged. "Maybe I just needed a break."
Ethan didn't push, but the look he gave her suggested he didn't entirely believe her.
As the evening stretched on, they sat in comfortable silence, the hum of the ocean filling the gaps between their words. Ethan strummed his guitar absentmindedly, and Ava found herself sketching in the corner of her notebook—small, rough lines that mirrored the ebb and flow of the music.
When she finally stood to leave, Ethan caught her arm gently. "Hey," he said, his voice low. "If you ever feel like picking up a brush again...I think you'd be good at it."
Ava met his gaze, something unfamiliar stirring in her chest. "I'll think about it," she said, her voice softer than she'd intended.
She walked back to the gallery with the faint echo of his music trailing behind her, the melody weaving itself into her thoughts like a thread of possibility.