Two years later, the sea was calm.
No sirens.
No bullets.
No secrets.
Just waves, children's laughter, and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper.
Linda sat beneath a fig tree beside the orphanage's art shed, sketchbook balanced on her knee. Her hair was shorter now. Her movements softer. Her eyes clearer.
Around her, paint-streaked kids darted across the grass, holding up messy masterpieces and shouting her name.
“Miss Linda! Look, I drew the thorn statue!"
“Mine has fireworks!"
She smiled. “They're beautiful."
And she meant it.
Not because of skill—but because they came from unbroken hands.
—
Inside the orphanage, the walls were lined with new work—art therapy sessions led by Linda every morning.
No more boardrooms.
No more bulletproof glass.
Just colors.
Hope.
And child
