The morning after the gallery exhibition, Lena woke to sunlight streaming through her curtains, the warmth of it nudging her awake. She lay in bed for a moment, letting the events of the previous night replay in her mind. The buzz of conversation, the way people had stood in front of her paintings, some with furrowed brows, others with soft smiles. For years, she had imagined moments like this but never believed she’d be brave enough to make them real.
Now, they were.
After a leisurely breakfast, Lena returned to her easel. Her latest painting, the golden-hued road leading to an infinite horizon, was nearly complete. She picked up her brush, touching up the edges of the horizon line with a steady hand. The act of painting felt different now—not a task or a challenge, but a joy, a way to
