The lecture hall was quiet as snow.
Junie stood at the podium, one hand gripping a cup of lukewarm tea, the other resting lightly on her notes — though she hadn’t looked at them once since she began.
On the screen behind her was a photo of the mural at the Sienna House: a wave made of brushstrokes, each painted by a different artist who had once stayed there. Romy had added a small jellyfish in the corner — crooked and joyful.
Junie smiled at it.
Then she turned back to the room.
Three hundred students stared back. Some wide-eyed. Some skeptical. Some sleepy.
All waiting.
So she spoke.
“I used to think art was something I had to chase.
That it lived in success. In perfect lighting. In rooms filled with applause.
But I was wrong.
Art lives in real life.
In cracked voices. In par
