Early spring had softened the edges of everything, the air, the soil, even the light filtering through the trees. The last traces of winter had retreated into memory, replaced by green shoots and damp earth and the faint sweetness of something blooming nearby. I sat on the low stone wall bordering the path, my sketchbook balanced on my knees, charcoal smudging the edge of my thumb.
I wasn’t drawing anything specific. Just lines. Shadows. The curve of branches overhead, the suggestion of leaves not fully formed yet. It was easier this way—no pressure, no outcome. Just motion.
“May I join you?”
The sound of Holt’s voice startled me so badly my pencil jumped, leaving a dark streak across the page. I sucked in a sharp breath and looked up. He stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of h
