Liam's Encouragement

The gentle afternoon sun, a pale gold filter through the lace curtains of her childhood bedroom, found Carol hunched over a canvas. It had been months, perhaps even a year, since she’d last truly *felt* the pull of the paintbrush, the whisper of charcoal against paper. Casey’s absence, a phantom limb ache, had dulled so many of her senses, her passions relegated to the dusty corners of her mind. But here, surrounded by the familiar scent of old wood and lavender sachets, something was stirring.

She’d unearthed her old art supplies from the attic, a trove of forgotten treasures. Tubes of paint, once vibrant and full of promise, now bore the faint creases of time, but their contents, when squeezed onto the palette, still held a surprising richness. The brushes, stiff with dried pigment, yielded to a determined soaking and a gentle coaxing. It felt like coaxing a part of herself back to life.

A soft knock at the door startled her, the sound echoing in the quiet house. Her mother, Eleanor, poked her head in, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “Someone’s here to see you, darling. A blast from the past, I’d say.”