SARAH
The art studio smelled of paint, turpentine, and something else—something raw and unfiltered. Unlike the restaurant, this place felt sacred.
There were no polished surfaces or careful conversations, just the quiet hum of creativity, the scratch of brushes against the canvas, and the occasional murmur of an artist lost in their world.
I took my time setting up, picking up a clean canvas, mixing my colors. Deep blues and soft grays, streaks of pale white. I worked slowly, my brush trailing along the fabric, shaping the delicate form of a bird.
Its wings were spread wide, desperate, fighting against the thick branch that pressed down against its back. Its feathers, once sleek and free, were ruffled in distress, its eyes wide with fear. I added texture, depth, and shadows that made i
