The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Three

I slip my coat off and hang it by the door, the familiar creak of the hook a small comfort.

The community creative hall is quiet, mostly. It used to be a schoolroom decades ago—now it's a shared space where local artists hold workshops, and where Maya sometimes hosts meetings when the gallery feels too formal for what she calls “seedling conversations.”
Maya already here, of course, sitting cross-legged on a mismatched sofa near the wide central table, her laptop open, notes scattered like petals across the surface.

“You’re early,” she says, grinning as she waves me in. “Which either means you’re nervous, or Isla’s drop-off was smoother than usual.”

I smile, soft. “She gave me a flower and told me to ‘go arts’ in her own baby logic, so I think that counts as a good day.”

Maya chuckles and pats the cushion beside her. “Come sit. I brought biscuits.”

I lower myself beside her, glancing around the space. My eyes catch on old sketches pinned to the community wall, work from locals who’ve passed through the space over the years—watercolor seascapes, charcoal dogs, paper-cut collages by kids with sticky fingers.

She taps her laptop. “So, the collaboration. It’s officially real.”

I lean in, interest piqued. “Tell me.”

“Storylight reached out last week—they’re doing a visual editorial on small-town life. Human texture. Quiet corners. Apparently, someone on their team found your work online—your fox-and-cobblestone piece, I think—and asked if we had a connection.”

I blink. “They did?”

“Right?” She sips her coffee, eyes twinkling. “I sent them a few more samples. They loved your tone. The softness. Said it reminded them of memory more than illustration. They want you to illustrate alongside the photographs. Not just as an afterthought—this would be a genuine pairing.”

I sit with that for a moment. “And the gallery?”

“We’ll run the show in parallel. An immersive crossover—photos, your illustrations, audio snippets, village moments. Maybe even sketches drawn live. I thought the community hall might host a pop-up space too.”

The idea stirs something in me. A blend of nerves and warmth. “It sounds...beautiful.”

“It is,” Maya says. “And honestly, you belong in this.”

I smile, a little involuntarily. Maya always knew how to land the good news softly, like it might otherwise spook me if delivered too formally.

The Rosebury Gallery has always felt... personal. It's where I first showed my early illustrations. Maya had invited me, tucked my pieces into a quiet corner of the room like they belonged there. It’s also where I started to believe this could be more than just sketches in my notebook. Where Isla and I still go on slow afternoons—her little hands pointing at canvases, asking if the horses in the paintings are sleepy or sad.

The thought of being part of something bigger—something that loops in the quiet soul of Rosebury with art and story—it warms something in me that’s been asleep a while.

I trace the rim of my mug slowly. It still feels a little unreal—someone in London finding my work tucked into a corner of the internet, wanting to pair it with a national editorial piece. And now this—gallery events, illustrations on walls again, maybe more books down the line.

“I just don’t want it to change too much,” I murmur. “I like the quiet. The way things are.”

“I know,” she says gently. “And this doesn’t have to be noise. Think of it like...a tide coming in gently. You can decide how far you let it reach.”