The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Three

I nod slowly. She always knows how to say things in a way that fits the way I think. Carefully. Quietly.

We talk logistics for a while longer. She shares a draft timeline, mentions that the Storylight team will visit Rosebury in a few weeks. No mention of names yet, but I don’t mind. I’m content not knowing everything all at once.

As I stand to leave, I glance back at the cork board, where someone’s sketched a little girl holding a balloon in charcoal. Something about the line work feels familiar—not mine, but close.

“I’ll start sketching tonight,” I say softly. “I think I already know what pieces want to be in this.”

Maya smiles. “Good. The village will thank you for seeing it.”

Outside, the air smells like seaweed and sun-warmed stone. And for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m about to step into something quietly extraordinary.
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The café smells like cinnamon toast and roasted hazelnuts. A chalkboard menu hangs askew on the wall behind the counter, and there's a vase of wildflowers on each table, fresh-cut from someone’s garden that morning. Probably the elderly man I sometimes see dropping them off in a basket like it’s nothing. That’s Rosebury. Quiet gestures, loud meaning.

I tuck myself into the corner booth, the one near the window, where I can see the slope of the hills meeting the sea. It’s not busy today—just a pair of women chatting near the barista and a toddler trying to fit an entire scone into her mouth without anyone stopping her.

I open my sketchbook first, out of habit. Pages curl with use, soft and warm at the edges like an old blanket. But then I pull out my iPad, where I draw most of my commissioned work. Tap, swipe, breathe.

My fingers hover over the screen for a second longer than usual.

I open the file for my children’s book project—the one I’ve been slowly, lovingly building for over a year. There’s a new idea nagging at the edge of my mind. Something about a small fox who hides letters in tree trunks for the forest animals to find. Kind letters. Brave ones. Maybe the fox doesn't speak, but writes instead. I like that.

I sketch the outline quickly: wide eyes, small paws, a scarf that’s too long for its little neck. It makes me think of Isla—how she talks to the trees in her own language, how she hugs books to her chest like secrets.

I smile to myself and draw.

Minutes slip into nearly an hour. I order a second cup of tea from the waitress with the honey-colored braid and thank her softly. The sun shifts in the window, crawling across the tabletop like it’s shy.

There’s that feeling again. Like the universe is leaning in a little too close.

I look up, half-expecting someone to be watching. But it’s just the toddler again, proudly holding up her juice box like a trophy.

I go back to my fox.

I give him a satchel. Inside are little scrolls of parchment, carefully rolled and tied with wild grass. His eyes look gentle, a bit unsure, like he’s figuring out what kindness means.

My tea goes cold.

But the story, like something buried and blooming, begins to take root.

It’s not even mid-afternoon, but something about the quiet has started to ache. I finish the last line of the fox’s scarf, then just… stop. My fingers hover, but the flow is gone. Or maybe it’s shifted.

I glance at the time and realize I don’t have to pick Isla up yet. Not for at least another hour. But my chest already feels the pull.

I pack up slowly—iPad, pencil, sketchbook, half-drunk tea—my fingers moving out of habit. As I step outside, the breeze hits me. Warm, gentle. Carrying the scent of salt and grass and something soft I can’t quite name. Maybe memory.

The walk to the daycare isn’t long. The path is lined with small flower boxes, and one of the windows has paper hearts taped to the glass, most likely Isla’s doing. She always tries to decorate everything she touches.

I peek through the little window before stepping in.

Inside, she’s kneeling on a mat with a few other children, her tiny hands patting down the corners of a construction paper crown. Mrs. Halley helps her fasten it around her curls, then Isla turns suddenly—as if sensing me—and her whole face lights up.

"Mama!" she squeals, her version of “mom” still tangled in baby syllables, and it hits me right in the center of the chest.

She runs at me, half-tripping on the rug in her excitement. I crouch down just in time to catch her, her arms flinging around my neck, her paper crown skewed sideways. I kiss her cheek, breathe in the scent of strawberries and finger paint.

“I missed you too,” I whisper, even though she hasn’t said the words yet.

“Flowah!” she mumbles proudly, pulling a slightly squished daisy from her pocket and pressing it into my hand. “For you.”

Mrs. Halley chuckles from behind us. “She’s been very talkative today. Telling the fox story again.”

I smile, heart both heavy and full. “That fox has a lot of stories.”

On the walk home, Isla holds my hand and skips every few steps. We stop to look at a ladybug. We wave at a passing dog. She sings something soft under her breath—some song only she knows the tune to—and I find myself humming along.

Back home, I don’t open the laptop. I don’t touch my sketchbook.

Instead, we sit on the rug in the living room with blocks and picture books, and I let the rest of the world wait.

Somehow, this too feels like a kind of story being written—one only the two of us can read.