The morning following the soft opening broke across the north ridge in a quiet burst of amber and pale rose.
The studio loft was still, safe for the gentle hum of the climate control maintaining the moisture levels in the darkroom annex. Sunlight cut diagonally through the sweeping glass walls, casting long, clean rectangles across the polished concrete floor.
Ava sat on the built-in window bench along the east wall, barefoot, wearing an oversized knit sweater over her clothes. In her lap lay her leather-bound sketchbook—the one that had once been filled with frantic, heavily shaded charcoal drawings of cramped basement counters and darkroom trays.
Now, her pencil moved across the paper in light, confident strokes. She was sketching the timber cross-beams framing the dawn, noting the ex
