The First Stroke

The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of Mara's bedroom, painting soft golden patterns on the wooden floor. She sat on the edge of her bed, tying her boots, her mind flitting between thoughts like restless birds. The encounter at the café the day before lingered with her—a distraction she hadn't been prepared for.

She hadn't asked his name. Or where they were supposed to paint. She'd rushed away too quickly, overwhelmed by her own impulsiveness in suggesting they work together. What if he didn't show up at the café again? What if he wasn't serious?

She shook her head and grabbed her coat. There was only one way to find out.

The walk to the café was brisk, the coastal air biting at her cheeks as the sound of seagulls echoed above. By the time she reached the door, her heart was racing—not from the climb, but from something else entirely.

Pushing inside, she scanned the room. Her breath caught when she saw him.

Rhys sat at the same table as yesterday, a cup of coffee in front of him and his ever-present notebook open. He was leaning back slightly, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something on the page. His presence seemed to fill the space effortlessly, as if he belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Mara hesitated, then forced herself to move toward him. He looked up as she approached, his expression shifting from concentration to mild surprise.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

He smiled faintly, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Go ahead."

Mara set her coffee down and slid into the chair, her fingers curling around the warm mug. "I just realized yesterday," she began, "that I didn't ask your name."

His smile widened slightly, amused. "Rhys," he said simply. "And you're Mara."

Her brows shot up. "How did you—?"

He tapped his notebook with his pen. "You signed one of the paintings in the café. The one by the window. Hard to miss."

Mara felt a blush creep up her neck. She'd almost forgotten about the pieces she'd sold to the café owner years ago, back when she first started painting. "Right. That."

"And you wanted to paint together?" Rhys prompted, his tone light but laced with curiosity.

Mara nodded, gripping her mug a little tighter. "Yeah. I thought… well, maybe it'd help. But I'm not sure I'm ready to sit here with an easel in the middle of the café."

Rhys chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly. "Understandable."

She hesitated before adding, "Would you mind coming with me to my studio instead? It's just a short walk from here. I need the silence."

Rhys studied her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Then he nodded. "Lead the way."

Relief flooded her, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Together, they stepped out into the morning chill, the wind sweeping in from the sea as they walked down the cobblestone streets.

"You live here?" Mara asked after a while, breaking the silence.

"For now," Rhys said. "I don't really stay anywhere for long."

She glanced at him. "So, you're passing through?"

"Something like that," he replied, his gaze fixed ahead. "What about you?"

Mara hesitated, her hand brushing against the strap of her bag. "I came back to the estate a few weeks ago. It belonged to my parents, but I haven't been here in years. Thought maybe the change of scenery would help me… figure things out."

Rhys didn't press her for more, and she was grateful for the space.

When they reached the studio, she pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar space. It was her sanctuary—a room filled with canvases leaning against walls, jars of brushes in every size, and the faint scent of turpentine and linseed oil. The light from the tall windows spilled across the hardwood floors, illuminating the remnants of her creative chaos.

Rhys paused in the doorway, his eyes scanning the space. "This is yours?"

Mara nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It's a bit of a mess."

"It's alive," Rhys said simply, stepping inside. He set his bag down near the wall and turned to her. "Where do we start?"

Mara took a deep breath and gestured toward the extra easel in the corner. "You can set up there, if you want."

He nodded and began unpacking his supplies. She watched as he pulled out a few charcoal sticks, a sketchpad, and a battered tin of pencils. His movements were precise, practiced, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of envy at how easily he seemed to settle into the space.

She, on the other hand, stood frozen in front of her canvas, brush in hand but unmoving.

"What's wrong?" Rhys asked after a moment, glancing at her.

"I don't know what to paint," Mara admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys didn't answer immediately. Instead, he picked up a pencil and began sketching something on his own page. The sound of the pencil scratching against the paper filled the room.

"Just… paint whatever comes to mind," he said finally, his voice calm and steady. "Sometimes, we think too much about what it should be, and not enough about what it wants to be."

Mara stared at the blank canvas in front of her, the brush trembling slightly in her hand. She tried to summon an image—any image—but her mind remained stubbornly empty.

Behind her, Rhys continued to sketch, his focus unwavering. The quiet determination in his movements was both infuriating and inspiring. She wanted to capture that ease, that confidence, but all she could feel was the weight of her own expectations.

Her fingers tightened around the brush, and she bit her lip, forcing herself to take a step closer to the canvas. The silence in the room was deafening, but in it, she could almost hear the echo of his words.

"Whatever comes to mind," she whispered to herself, her gaze narrowing on the blank surface before her.

The first stroke was hesitant, almost unsure. But it was a start.