The morning began with a lie.
Eliana told herself she wouldn't call the number, told herself she'd rip the note in two, toss it in the trash, and pretend none of this had happened. But as the day stretched its long limbs across the worn hardwood floor of her apartment, that cream-colored envelope remained untouched on the windowsill, catching the light like it had a secret to whisper.
By noon, she'd memorized the number. By two, she'd written it down again in her sketchpad, then circled it—twice.
Jasmine noticed. "Why are you staring at your notebook like it owes you money?"
"It might," Eliana muttered.
"What's did it say?"
"Nothing important."
Jasmine didn't press. She rarely did when Eliana used that voice—the one that sounded calm but was built on cracking ice.
Eliana's phone buzzed again. This time it was a text from a past client, someone who'd commissioned a mural months ago. The message was short, clipped:
Hi Eliana,
My friend is opening a new co-op café near Midtown, she needs art.
She said I should give her your number. Is that okay?
Eliana's heart lifted. Art meant payment in which payment meant meds, food and hope.
She replied, Yes, absolutely. Thanks!
Not ten minutes later, a new message popped up.
Hello Ms. Brooks.
This is Fallon Rivera. I run Ciel Café on East 54th.
Heard wonderful things about your work. Are you available to meet tomorrow morning to discuss a mural commission?
It felt too good to be true.
But Eliana replied with a yes before she could overthink it.
That night, she prepped.
She cleaned the dirt from under her nails, scrubbed the paint stains from her hands. She even pulled out the least-wrinkled blouse she owned and paired it with her nicest jeans—the ones without the hole in the knee.
When Jasmine saw her the next morning, brows raised in dramatic suspicion.
"Hot date?" she asked.
"Interview," Eliana said, pouring tea into a chipped thermos. "And if it goes well, we might be able to afford pizza next week."
Jasmine mimed a slow gasp. "Real pizza? With cheese and everything?"
"No guarantees," Eliana said, kissing the top of her head. "But I'll fight for extra cheese."
She left with a nervous ache in her stomach and a sketchbook clutched tightly under one of her arm.
Ciel Café sat on the corner of East 54th and Park, nestled between a boutique florist and a bookstore that looked like it had stepped out of a European fairytale. The café itself was still under renovation—scaffolding outside, ladders leaning inside, the smell of sawdust clinging to the air.
Fallon Rivera was sharp, mid-thirties. Gold hoop earrings, wide smile with too many thoughts behind her eyes. She greeted Eliana like they'd known each other for years.
"I've seen your ballerina piece, that's stunning," Fallon said, motioning toward a wall freshly painted white. "That's your canvas, if you want it."
Eliana blinked. "Wait..you've seen my…? How?"
"A collector forwarded your name said your work had soul and I believe that."
A strange flutter ran through Eliana's chest. Collector?
They walked the space together. Fallon had a vision—a mural that blended New York's energy with softness. A balance of steel and warmth fallon wanted movement, storytelling, something that would make people linger longer than just coffee.
Eliana promised sketches by the weekend.
They shook hands.
As Eliana walked back to the subway, she caught her reflection in a shop window. Her smile looked unfamiliar, that's the work of hope though.
The mural job wasn't life-changing money, but it would help and more importantly. It was exposure, the kind that meant doors might start cracking open instead of slamming shut.
By evening, she was back in the studio, translating Fallon's words into loose pencil lines. Buildings and trees and dancers, bridges made of ribbon, skyscrapers unraveling into constellations.
Jasmine came in at one point, dragging a blanket around her shoulders. "I missed you today," she murmured.
Eliana looked up, surprised. "You okay?"
Her sister nodded. "I just like it when you're here. It's quieter."
That night, they watched a movie together on the tiny laptop screen, something silly with too many musical numbers. Jasmine sang along off-key and Eliana didn't shush her.
They both needed the joy.
Three days passed, then four.
No new envelope.
Eliana convinced herself it had been a coincidence maybe a random fan or maybe someone who stumbled across her work and thought they were being helpful. That kind of mystery didn't live in real life.
But then, on the fifth night, a knock came.
Not a sharp knock, a tap like a question.
Eliana opened the door to find no one in the hall.
Just a box.
A white box, tied with a silver ribbon.
Her breath caught. Jasmine, peeking behind her, whispered, "Is that for us?"
Eliana didn't answer.
She carried the box to the table, untied the ribbon, and opened the lid.
Inside was a set of brushes—brand new, professional-grade. The kind she'd only ever seen in art supply shops she couldn't afford to walk into.
And underneath them?
Another note.
Some tools are earned, others are given.
Use these to open what was always meant to be yours.
We are watching.
No signature.
Just that same elegant script and beneath it, the same phone number from before.
This time, Jasmine didn't need to ask anything. She just said, "I think it's someone who believes in you."Eliana stared at the brushes, touched one with reverence.
That night, she didn't sleep she painted until dawn. A girl on a rooftop, wind in her hair, surrounded by birds made of light and far below, the silhouette of a man watching her through glass.
Over the next two days, Eliana's world began to shimmer at the edges.
The mural sketches were coming together quickly. Fallon had offered to showcase the mural's progress on social media, tagging Eliana's artist page. Within hours, Eliana's inbox began filling up with requests, questions, praise, and small commissions. Suddenly, people wanted her, really wanted her.
Still, she couldn't stop thinking about the notes, the brushes and the silence after so much mystery.
Until one morning, while Eliana was sipping jasmine tea and watching the steam curl like ink from a brush, her phone buzzed again. A text.
Unknown Number:
We noticed the rooftop painting.
It's Magnificent.
Thank you.
She didn't respond, she stared at the screen. Her heart thudded.
Whoever this was… they were still watching.
Still invisible.
And somehow—still invested.
Across the city, in a glass tower no one could afford to glance up at without remembering their place, Dominic Blackwood stood behind tinted glass, coffee in hand.
He watched.
He waited.
He was not a man accustomed to waiting but for her, he would.
Not forever.
But just long enough for curiosity to bloom into inevitability.