The week moved like water.
Soft, unannounced, yet full of small ripples.
Purity sat at the back of the community gallery, watching people pass. Some pointed at paintings, some whispered, and others just stared. Her piece, the unnamed one, had been selected for display by someone Anna knew.
She didn't apply.
She didn't even know there was an application.
Anna had submitted it without telling her.
When Purity found out, she didn't know whether to be upset or grateful. Maybe both. But she showed up. Dressed in a navy blue blouse and black jeans. Nothing fancy just her, quiet and steady.
A small group stood in front of her work now, hands crossed, eyes narrowed. Someone with silver glasses leaned closer and muttered:
It feels like a pain to learn how to stand.
Another voice said, There's grief here, but it's not begging. It's daring.
She swallowed. Her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she watched them. They didn't know it was her. But something in her body recognized the moment:
She had never been this visible without having to undress her wounds.
The gallery director walked over to her, smiling gently.
You're Purity, right?
She nodded.
The painter of this piece?
Again, she nodded.
The woman tilted her head. Would you be open to submitting more work? We're curating a section for emerging voices young artists who paint like they've lived more than their years."
Purity blinked. Words came slowly.
I don't… I've never thought of myself as an artist."
The woman looked at the painting again. Then at her.
That's the thing about real artists. They rarely need to say it. Their work does the talking.
Purity said nothing. But inside, her chest bloomed like wet clay meeting sunlight.
Anna caught up with her outside after the event. They walked together, side by side not saying much at first.
Then Anna broke the silence.
I know you're mad at me for submitting that piece."
Purity smiled softly. Not anymore. I just didn't expect it.
That's what I want for you, a life filled with unexpected light. Not just survival, but breath.
They stood near a small food stall. Bought fried yam and sauce. Ate in silence.
Purity turned to her suddenly.
Anna… did you ever feel like you were created for something more, but life kept trying to convince you otherwise?"
Anna nodded slowly.
Every day. But that's why I hold on to people like you. Because sometimes, we don't remember our own fire until someone else warms their hands with it.
That night, back in her new room quiet, safe, and full of gentle colors Purity wrote:
The world didn't change for me. But I'm learning how to change my view of the world. To see pain without bowing to it. To feel seen without feeling exposed.
And beneath that, she added in soft cursive:
Maybe my voice is in my colors.
The next day, Purity returned to the gallery, not as a guest but as someone becoming part of something larger than her silence.
A small sign had been placed beneath her painting.
Anonymous Entry: Artist Confirmed — Purity.
She stared at the letters. They didn't feel foreign, but they didn't quite feel like her yet either.
She traced them lightly with her eyes.
That's you? a voice asked behind her.
She turned.
A young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, wearing a press badge and a notebook tucked under her arm, smiled warmly.
Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I'm Lara. I work with The Voice Weekly. We're running a feature on under-the-radar artists, and I'd love to ask you a few questions if that's okay.
Purity's fingers tightened around her tote bag.
I'm not really good at interviews…
It won't be recorded. No cameras. Just a quiet conversation.
She hesitated. But something inside her, the same thing that once refused to cry when it hurt, slowly nodded.
They sat outside on a nearby bench shaded by wide trees. The city hummed around them, but Purity stayed still.
You don't have to share what you're not ready to, Lara began gently. But I want to understand what this painting means to you.
Purity looked down at her fingers, still speckled faintly with color. Her voice, when it came, was slow and steady.
I think it means I survived. That I can live without shouting.
Lara waited.
People think when you're quiet, you're weak. But sometimes, silence is a form of strength. I painted that piece on a night I couldn't sleep. I just… wanted to make the noise in my head look like something.
Lara wrote nothing. She only listened.
It's strange, Purity added, to have strangers understand something about you without you having to explain it.
That's what good art does, Lara replied softly. It tells a secret while still keeping you safe.
Purity smiled faintly. Lara leaned forward.
What's next for you?
Purity looked ahead at the street, eyes following the blur of people she didn't know. Then, softly,
I don't know. But maybe… I'll stop running from myself."
Later that evening, as she walked home, her phone buzzed.
Anna had sent a photo of her with the painting. She hadn't noticed anyone taking it.
Caption: Your pain bloomed. And the world noticed.
She stared at it for a long time.
And for the first time in a long time, she saved a picture of herself not because she looked beautiful, but because she looked present.
In her new room, Purity sat on the floor surrounded by canvases. Some half-painted. Some untouched. Each one a version of her she hadn't yet met.
She took out her journal.
There's a voice in me that doesn't need to scream anymore. It just wants to paint.
And maybe that's enough.
The next weekend, she joined Anna at a small outdoor art workshop for girls. Most were between ten and fifteen. None of them knew who she was. They just called her "the quiet lady with pretty hands.
She taught one how to blend blue into green.
Helped another one swirl color into shadows.
And when one of the youngest asked her, How do you know when a painting is finished?
Purity smiled gently.
When it feels like it breathed for the first time.
The girl blinked and whispered, That's magic.
Maybe it was.