Lennox had left the studio door unlocked.
Not carelessly—intentionally.
The message he sent that morning was short.
> The tea is steeping.
Bring honesty. And maybe a cardigan. It's cold in here.
– L
Isla stood in the doorway now, coat clutched around her like armor, heart tucked inside her ribs like something fragile she wasn't sure she had permission to carry anymore.
He was at the small table by the north window, sketchpad open, sweater sleeves shoved up past his elbows. The kettle beside him steamed like it was trying to fill the silence with breath.
He didn't look up when she entered.
He just said, "Thanks for coming."
She walked to him slowly.
"I almost didn't."
"Why?"
"Because I wasn't sure if you needed space… or someone to stand in it with you."
That got him.
He looked up. And when he did, she saw it:
Not panic. Not regret.
But something older. A man staring down a truth and choosing not to run.
"I need both," he said quietly. "Sometimes at the same time."
She pulled off her coat, folded it neatly over the chair beside his, and sat down.
The steam from the tea curled between them.
"What's she like?" Isla asked.
Lennox blinked. "I don't know."
He opened a small envelope and pulled out the photo again. He passed it to her like it might burn him if he held it too long.
Juniper.
Five. Curly dark hair. Wide eyes. One front tooth missing. She held a stuffed fox like it was armor.
Isla smiled—softly. The way you smile at the sun after a storm.
"She looks like your sister," she said.
"She does." His voice cracked slightly. "And I can't tell if that's comforting or terrifying."
Isla set the photo down.
And then, gently: "What are you going to do?"
Lennox stared at his tea. "They gave me two weeks. To decide if I want to pursue custody."
"Do you?"
He was quiet a long time.
"I don't know how to be someone's anchor when I still float sideways most days," he said. "I don't even water my plants consistently."
"You don't have any plants."
"Exactly."
Isla reached for the tea and took a slow sip. It was strong. Bitter. Exactly right.
"You don't have to know yet," she said. "But maybe you could let her be the reason you learn."
Lennox exhaled like someone peeling off a heavy coat.
"Will you help me?" he asked. "If I try?"
Isla didn't hesitate.
"I will," she said. "But only if you let me hold the pen when your hands shake too much to draw."
He nodded. And it wasn't dramatic. Wasn't poetic.
It was real.
A man deciding.
A woman choosing.
A silence between them blooming into something that could only be called trust.
---
Later, after the tea had gone cold and the light had turned dusky amber, Isla wandered the studio while Lennox cleaned brushes.
She paused in front of the unfinished painting again. The one that had once stared at her without eyes.
Now?
Now the girl had eyes.
Hers.
But older.
Wiser.
And beneath them, on the canvas's edge, Lennox had scrawled in faded pencil:
She survived the fire.
Not because she ran—
But because she stayed.
Isla didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
She simply laid her hand on the canvas frame.
Like an offering.
Like a vow.