Chapter 4 : The House on Bell Street
1185 Words
Saturday morning arrived with the kind of stillness that felt fragile. The sky was pale, the air heavy with the promise of rain again. Arielle sat at her desk, flipping through her sketchbook half drawings, half thoughts.
She stopped at the newest one.
The boy with wings.
Lance’s words beneath it echoed in her mind:
“Some storms aren’t meant to be survived alone.”
It felt like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.
She opened her messages, hesitated, then typed:
Arielle: Are you home?
A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.
Lance: Bell Street, house with the acacia tree. You’ll see it.
Bell Street was quieter than she expected. Old houses lined the road, their walls worn by years of wind and rain. She found the acacia easily it was huge, branches stretching over a low blue gate.
She hesitated before knocking.
Lance opened the door, paint on his hands, exhaustion in his eyes but when he saw her, he smiled like the weight of the week had lifted just a little.
“You actually came,” he said softly.
“You invited me,” she replied.
He stepped aside. “Welcome to my very boring kingdom.”
The house was small but full of warmth paintings leaned against the walls, brushes soaked in jars, the scent of turpentine and rain everywhere. On the table was a half-finished canvas: a girl standing in the rain, holding a lantern that glowed faintly yellow.
“That’s you,” he said when he saw her looking. “The light looks better in person, though.”
Arielle smiled. “You should finish it.”
“I will. Someday.”
She noticed the hallway door slightly open. A soft sound like labored breathing came from behind it.
“Is that…?”
“My mom,” he said quietly. “She’s resting. Chemotherapy days are rough.”
Arielle’s chest tightened. “Lance, I...”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, though his voice trembled a little. “She has good days too. I just… try to paint through the bad ones.”
They stood in silence for a while, the sound of rain beginning to tap against the roof.
“Do you ever get tired of pretending everything’s okay?” Arielle asked softly.
He looked at her, eyes distant. “Every day. But pretending is easier than explaining.”
She wanted to say something to tell him he didn’t have to carry it alone but he looked so fragile in that moment, she was afraid the wrong word would make him break.
Instead, she reached for his hand. Just that simple touch.
And for a second, he held on like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
They spent the afternoon painting together. Lance handed her a brush and pointed to a blank canvas.
“Your turn,” he said. “No thinking. Just paint what you feel.”
Arielle hesitated, then began with a single streak of gold. Then blue. Then soft gray.
When she stopped, she realized she’d painted something like dawn breaking through clouds.
Lance watched her work quietly, then whispered, “You always paint hope without realizing it.”
“Maybe I need to believe in it,” she said.
He smiled faintly. “Then I’ll help you.”
Later, as they sat near the window, he pulled out an old sketchbook edges frayed, cover stained.
“These are my first ones,” he said, flipping through the pages. “Before Mom got sick.”
The drawings were different lighter, happier. Sunsets, laughter, bright colors. Then gradually, they darkened storms, wings, shadows.
She stopped at one.
A boy sitting in the rain, his back turned, wings broken.
“This was the first time I drew storms,” he said quietly. “That night, Mom collapsed. I waited for the ambulance alone.”
Arielle swallowed hard. “Lance…”
He shook his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
“I want to,” she said. “Because no one should ever go through that alone.”
He looked at her, something breaking and rebuilding in his gaze. “You’re really something else, Arielle.”
“What do you mean?”
“You show up.”
She smiled through the ache in her chest. “Maybe that’s my thing.”
“Then I hope you don’t stop.”
It was evening when she finally stood to leave. The rain had stopped, leaving the world washed clean.
As she stepped outside, Lance followed her to the gate.
“Thanks for today,” he said. “For not running away.”
“Why would I?”
“Because I’m a mess.”
“Then I guess I like messy things,” she said softly.
He laughed low and real and for the first time, it didn’t sound like it was hiding pain.
Then he looked at her, and the air shifted. The way his eyes met hers it felt like the world paused.
He stepped closer, slow enough to give her time to pull away. She didn’t.
Their foreheads touched. The quiet hum of the street faded until all that remained was the sound of two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said, “but I don’t want it to end.”
Arielle smiled faintly. “Then don’t let it.”
He brushed his thumb against her cheek, memorizing her face like it was something he wanted to draw later.
And when she walked away under the faint moonlight, she knew—something fragile and beautiful had begun to grow between them. Something that scared her and made her believe all at once.
That night, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed again.
Lance: You forgot your brush.
Arielle: Keep it.
Lance: Why?
Arielle: So when you paint your storms, you remember who stood beside you when they started to fade.
She waited for his reply.
It came a minute later:
Lance: Then I guess I’ll never paint alone again.
- Writer
