Anna's POV
The theater room is quiet in a way that feels sacred. I stand just inside the doorway, the lights dimmed except for the soft track lighting that runs along the ceiling, each beam angled carefully toward a canvas. My canvases. They line the walls in deliberate order, telling a story I’ve lived inside for months—color, texture, emotion layered until my hands ached, and my mind went blissfully silent.
This is it.
My chest tightens as I take a slow step forward, my boots echoing faintly against the polished floor. The smell of paint still lingers, familiar and grounding. I trace the air in front of the first piece without touching it, my fingers trembling.
This isn’t just an exhibit. It’s proof.
Proof that I belong here. Proof that I didn’t imagine the fire in my chest every ti
