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The bell over the shop door gives a soft jingle when I step inside.

The scent hits me immediately—paper, pigment, wood, oil.

My throat tightens so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

An older woman looks up from behind the counter and smiles like there's nothing unusual at all about a woman standing in the middle of her shop looking like she might either cry or rob the place.

"Bonjour."

"Bonjour," I manage.

I walk slowly, fingertips brushing over familiar things.

Brush handles.

Canvas edges.

Tubes of paint arranged in rows that make my chest ache with how much I used to know without thinking. Which brands dried faster. Which colors lied in the tube and turned gorgeous on canvas. How some brushes only looked soft until you tried to make them do detail work and realized they were traitors.

My hand closes around a small stretched canvas before my brain catches up.

Then a brush set.

Then paint.

Not too much. Just enough to feel reckless.

Just enough to feel possible.

When I pay, the woman wraps everything carefully in tissue and slips it into a sturdy paper bag like she's packing up something breakable.

She is.

By the time I reach the promenade, the chocolate pastry is long gone and my heart is somewhere in my throat.

I find a place near the water where the foot traffic thins and set the bag down beside me on a low stone wall. The sea stretches out in front of me, blinding and blue and alive in a way Seattle water never tries to be.

I unpack the canvas slowly.

Brushes.

Paint.

A little rag.

My hands don't shake until I actually touch brush to canvas.

The first stroke goes wrong.

The second feels terrifying.

The third feels like I might survive it.

I start with what's in front of me because it's safe. The water. The line where it meets the sky. The white shapes of boats cutting across the blue. The warm blur of buildings climbing the hillside behind the promenade, all honey and blush and faded terracotta.

It's not good.

Or maybe it is. I can't tell anymore.