From Snow, With Love...

Chapter 2: New Steps.

The morning sun hadn't yet cleared the hospital's east wing when Lana slipped into the children's ward at St. Mary's. At 6:45 AM, the normally bustling corridors were hushed, populated only by the night shift finishing their rounds and cleaning staff preparing for the day ahead. Her footsteps echoed against the linoleum floors as she made her way to the playroom, careful to avoid the path that would take her past the pediatric surgery department.

The walls of the playroom were her legacy – a menagerie of storybook characters she'd painted last summer during the renovation. Peter Rabbit peeked from behind real potted plants in one corner. Mary Poppins floated near the ceiling, her umbrella decorated with actual tiny lights that twinkled at night. The Wild Things roamed a forest that wrapped around the reading nook, their terrible eyes seeming to follow you around the room in a way that made the children giggle rather than fear.

"Either you're hiding from someone, or you've finally lost your mind completely."

Lana didn't need to turn to know Dymphna O'Reilly was standing in the doorway. Her best friend had a way of making her presence known that went beyond footsteps or words – it was more like the room suddenly contained more life, more possibility, more Irish stubbornness.

"The board wants sketches for the spring renovation," Lana explained, setting up her portable easel near the window. "I need to check the light at different times of day."

"At quarter to seven?" Dymphna moved into the room, her wild red curls escaping from what might have once been a professional bun. Her scrubs today featured dinosaurs wearing lab coats – a gift from her young patients. "When a certain green-eyed doctor is definitely in Boston boring everyone at some fancy pediatric surgery conference?"

"Pure coincidence." Lana focused on unpacking her watercolors, arranging them in the familiar rainbow that had been her working pattern since art school. "Some of us just like quiet mornings."

"Some of us are lying liars who lie." Dymphna perched on one of the tiny chairs, somehow making it look like a throne. As the ward's child psychologist, she'd mastered the art of fitting into small spaces while maintaining her dignity. "You haven't been here during normal hours in months. Not since Victoria started bringing Asher lunch every Tuesday during story time."

Lana's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her favorite brush – the one Asher had given her for her college graduation. "I've been busy with the new book."

"The one about the lighthouse keeper's daughter? Martha says you're three months ahead of schedule."

"You called my editor?"

"I called everyone." Dymphna's voice softened. "Sophie asked me yesterday if you stopped loving them. She's convinced her bad days scared you away."

The brush clattered against the easel. Sophie Martinez was seven years old, fighting leukemia with a smile that could light up the darkest days. She'd been the first child Lana had read to when she started volunteering, and the inspiration for her award-nominated book about a girl who painted with starlight.

"That's not fair," Lana whispered.

"Neither is abandoning your life's work because you can't handle seeing the man you love happy with someone else."

"I'm not abandoning—"

"When was the last time you read to the oncology ward? The last time you helped decorate for a birthday in the long-term care unit? The last time you let Dr. Reynolds use your illustrations in his therapy sessions?" Dymphna stood, her five-foot-nothing frame somehow towering with conviction. "You're not just hiding from Asher, love. You're hiding from yourself."

Before Lana could defend herself, Dymphna reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a photo. It showed a man in his early thirties, with thoughtful brown eyes and a smile that seemed to invite conversation. His dark hair had a slight wave to it, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that should have looked pretentious but somehow didn't.

"This is Connor Sullivan. My cousin, remember? The one who writes for The New Yorker?"

"Dymphna Mary O'Reilly, if you're about to say what I think you're about to say—"

"He's in town researching a piece on how university communities influence art and literature. He loves books, appreciates watercolors, and most importantly, has no idea that you've been in love with Asher Caldwell since you were five years old."

Lana stared at the photo. "He's... not what I expected."

"You mean he doesn't have green eyes and freckles like constellations?" Dymphna's tone was gentle despite her teasing words. "That's rather the point, darling. Seven o'clock tonight. He's picking you up for dinner at Lucia's."

"Lucia's? That's..." Lana swallowed. It was the new Italian place downtown, the one she'd mentioned wanting to try when Asher had brought Victoria to their last family dinner.

"Fancy? Romantic? Not the hospital cafeteria where you used to 'accidentally' run into Asher during his breaks?" Dymphna pulled out her phone. "Wear that green dress you bought for the book award ceremony. You know, the one you never got to wear because you convinced yourself you were too busy to attend?"

"I was busy."

"You were avoiding seeing Asher with Victoria at the after-party. Martha told me they were on the guest list." Dymphna's fingers flew over her phone screen. "There. I've texted Maria. Your mother agrees you should wear the dress."

"You involved my mother?"

"She involved herself. Apparently, she ran into Katherine Caldwell at yoga this morning and heard all about Victoria moving into Asher's new house next month."

The watercolor brush Lana had been holding slipped, sending a streak of purple across her sketch of a fox. Her chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped piano wire around her ribs and was slowly turning the key.

"Moving in?" Her voice sounded distant to her own ears. "They're..."

"Living together. Yes." Dymphna moved closer, wrapping an arm around Lana's shoulders. "Which is exactly why you're going to put on that dress tonight, wear those emerald earrings your grandmother left you, and let Connor Sullivan remind you that there are other men in the world. Men who might actually see you."

Lana's phone buzzed. A text from Lucas: "Heard about your hot date tonight. Don't worry, I won't tell Ash. But maybe you should."

Another buzz. Martha, her editor: "Dymphna's right. The book's ahead of schedule. Go have fun. The lighthouse keeper's daughter will still be there tomorrow."

A third buzz made her jump. Asher: "Conference is boring without my story time buddy. Kids miss you. Victoria says the new oncology wing needs your touch. Come back soon?"

Lana stared at her phone until the screen went dark. In the silence of the playroom, Mary Poppins seemed to be watching her with knowing eyes, while the Wild Things appeared to lean forward, waiting for her decision.

Looking down at her sketch, she noticed something. The accidental purple streak across the fox's tail didn't ruin the drawing – it made it more interesting, as if the fox had run through twilight and caught some of the magic in its fur.

"Okay," she said finally, looking up at Dymphna. "But I'm not promising anything."

"Promise me this instead," Dymphna said, pulling her into a fierce hug. "Promise you'll stop hiding in empty playrooms at dawn. Promise you'll start reading to the kids again – all the kids, even if it means seeing Asher with Victoria. Promise you'll remember that you're Lana Blanco, award-nominated artist and creator of worlds that help children forget they're sick. Promise you'll stop being a supporting character in your own life story."

Tears pricked at Lana's eyes. "When did you get so wise?"

"Somewhere between my second glass of wine last night and my third coffee this morning." Dymphna grinned. "Now, I'm coming over at six to help you get ready. We're giving those honey-brown eyes some drama, and we'ren definitely doing something about these curls."

As if on cue, the ward began to wake up. Down the hall, they could hear the day shift arriving, the sound of children stirring in their rooms, nurses changing shifts. Life moving forward, as it always did.

Lana turned to her sketchbook and flipped to a new page. Instead of her usual careful planning, she let her brush dance across the paper, creating a girl standing at a crossroads. One path was well-worn, familiar, lined with memories and glass reindeer and green-eyed smiles. The other sparkled with unknown possibilities, purple twilight streams, and maybe, just maybe, wire-rimmed glasses and thoughtful brown eyes.

For the first time in years, she left the sketch unfinished – letting the paths fade into blank paper, into possibility, into whatever might come next.

Her phone buzzed one last time. Lucas again: "By the way, pequeña, Connor Sullivan wrote that article about immigrant artists that made you cry last month. Thought you should know. Have fun tonight."

Lana looked around the playroom, at all the stories she'd painted on its walls. Maybe it was time to start writing a new one – one where she wasn't just waiting for someone else's happily ever after.