The sun had barely crested the horizon when Maeve opened the windows of the Sienna House. The early morning light filtered through linen curtains, casting golden squares across the wooden floors. It smelled like fresh paint and possibility. The scent of lavender from the garden drifted in, calming the last vestiges of nerves flickering in Maeve’s chest.
Today was the day.
The first group of resident artists was scheduled to arrive.
She walked barefoot through the barn-turned-gallery, now cleared, polished, and painted in soft tones that reflected natural light. The upstairs had been fitted with studio spaces, while the downstairs became a collaborative hall—messy, open, and ready for chaos.
Every surface spoke of intention.
Maeve stopped in the center of the room, staring up at the la
