Three years later.
I sat before an easel at a private rehabilitation center beside Lake Silvermere in Alderwick, holding a palette knife in my left hand as I applied the final strokes to the canvas. The right sleeve of my shirt hung empty, my wrist secured in a custom brace.
Even though I barely escaped the fire 3 years ago with my life, my shattered wrist and severely damaged nerves remained. Doctors confidently declared that I would never be able to hold a paintbrush again. For an artist, this was no different from a death sentence.
I spent the first 6 months drowning in despair. It was Mr. Vance Sr. who pushed my wheelchair down to the lake every day and sat beside me without saying a word.
"Rosalind," he said one day, pressing a brand-new paintbrush into my left hand. "Your right h
