The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Three

The kettle goes on, my hand already knowing the dance. Tea first. Always. I pull my hair into a loose bun as I wait, trying to shift into “professional mode,” whatever that even means these days.

I sit at the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, where the light hits just right. My sketchpad is still open, a fox in mid-leap waiting for color. But instead of picking up my pencils, I reach for the laptop and flip it open.

Inbox: 3 New Messages

One is a receipt from the grocery shop. Another from a parent group I always mean to read but never do.

The third is from an unfamiliar address.

Subject: Illustration Collaboration Inquiry – Storylight Editorial

I frown slightly, clicking it open.

"Dear Ms. Nicolette,

We’ve been following your illustrated work for some time and are especially fond of the quiet intimacy and emotional depth of your pieces. Your recent collection “Still Things” caught our attention through a gallery recommendation.

We’re curating a visual feature for our upcoming print and digital editorial—centered on storytelling through rural life, everyday beauty, and small-town memory.

We’d love to commission you to create a series of original illustrations to accompany a photo essay being developed in tandem. We believe your style would complement the tone beautifully.

If you’re open to discussing this, please let us know. The creative team would be thrilled to connect.

Warmly,

Niomi Avery
Head of Curation, Storylight Editorial"

I blink at the screen for a long moment.

It’s... not what I expected. I’ve done commissions before, but mostly small press work, children’s publishers, the occasional indie author or local client. Nothing from a London-based editorial. And nothing so... carefully worded. Carefully seen.

Small-town memory. That phrase hums in my head.

I scroll down, checking for more specifics. There's mention of deadlines, an NDA if I choose to proceed, and that the photographs are still in development—no name attached to the photographer, just that the essay will “reflect the soul of quiet places.”

I smile softly, a little unsure. It’s flattering, definitely. And something about it tugs at me—a thread I can’t quite name.

Still, it’s work. And work is good.

Especially now.

Especially when it’s something that feels like it might matter, even a little.

I sip my tea, still warm in my hands, and read the email again.

I glance over at my sketchbook again. There’s already so much in it that belongs to this place. Drawings born from the sea air and ivy walls and Isla’s laughter echoing down stone lanes.

Maybe it’s time I shared more of it..

Then I close the laptop and wrap my hands around my mug, letting the heat pull me back into the moment.

This might really be something.

_____

The meeting room still carries the scent of old wood varnish. Light pours in through tall windows streaked slightly by salt air, catching on the motes that dance lazily in the beams.