The rain had started sometime after midnight. By morning, the streets shone like glass, and the city wore the kind of gray that made everything seem suspended—caught between motion and stillness.
Elena sat at her kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. Her small apartment was cluttered in the way of artists: half-finished canvases leaning against walls, brushes soaking in jars, the faint smell of turpentine clinging to the air. Normally, it comforted her. Today, it felt suffocating.
She couldn't stop replaying last night.
Adrian's voice, low and steady. His eyes, unreadable but piercing. The way he had stood in front of her painting, as if he could see not only the colors but the memory she had buried in every stroke.
She had thought seven years would dull the edges of the past. That absence would soften memory into something harmless. But one look at him, and it was as if time had been an illusion. The hurt, the guilt, the longing—they were all still there, raw and waiting.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. She glanced at the screen. Mira.
Elena debated ignoring it, but Mira was not the kind of woman to let silence stand. With a sigh, she answered.
"Elena," Mira's voice was far too chipper for morning. "Tell me you survived last night without slipping out the back door."
"I survived," Elena muttered, cradling the mug as though it could protect her.
"You were brilliant, by the way. Everyone adored your work. The sponsor practically purred when he saw Mistakes in Amber. I think he wants to buy two more pieces."
"That's good," Elena said automatically.
"Don't sound so thrilled."
"I am. Just tired."
Mira paused, and Elena knew what was coming. Her friend was many things—fierce, relentless, loyal—but subtle was not among them.
"And," Mira said carefully, "did I imagine Adrian Hale showing up, or did that actually happen?"
Elena's grip tightened on the mug. "You didn't imagine it."
"I thought so." Mira's tone sharpened. "Did you talk to him?"
"A little."
"Elena—"
"I don't want to talk about it," she cut in, sharper than she intended. The silence on the other end twisted her stomach. "Sorry. I just… I can't."
Mira exhaled. "Fine. But he's back. That much is obvious. And you're going to have to decide how you want to deal with it."
Elena closed her eyes. Deal with it. As if the past was something you could tidy up and put away, like brushes after painting.
"I have work to do," Elena said softly. "I'll call you later."
She hung up before Mira could argue.
---
Later that day
By afternoon, the rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp. Elena carried a rolled canvas under her arm as she walked toward the community center. Once a week, she taught an art class for kids there—a quiet corner of her life that grounded her. No galleries, no donors, no haunting memories. Just paint, laughter, and the freedom children carried in their hands.
The center's entrance was crowded with parents and volunteers. Elena smiled at a few familiar faces and slipped inside, heading toward the art room. The smell of paper and crayons greeted her, along with the chatter of children waiting.
She set her canvas down, ready to lose herself in the rhythm of guiding small hands and bright imaginations. But as she turned toward the supply shelf, her breath stalled.
Adrian.
He stood near the doorway, speaking with one of the center's coordinators. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms she remembered far too well. He looked out of place here, yet oddly comfortable—as if he belonged wherever he chose to stand.
The coordinator noticed Elena and waved her over. "Elena! Perfect timing. I wanted to introduce you to our newest volunteer."
Her stomach dropped.
Adrian turned, and their eyes locked once again.
"Elena," the coordinator said brightly, oblivious to the storm swirling between them. "This is Adrian Hale. He's offered to help us with the community legal clinic, but I think he's interested in supporting some of the arts programs too."
Adrian extended a hand. His expression was polite, almost formal, but his eyes told another story—one of recognition, of unfinished conversations.
"Elena and I," he said slowly, "already know each other."
The coordinator beamed. "Even better!"
Elena forced herself to take his hand. His touch was warm, steady, achingly familiar. She pulled back quickly.
"That's… wonderful," she managed. "Welcome."
The coordinator excused herself, leaving them standing far too close in the noisy room.
"You're volunteering here?" Elena asked, her voice low.
Adrian shrugged lightly. "I had some time. I thought I could be useful."
"You?" she said before she could stop herself. "Useful in an art program?"
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Don't sound so surprised. I can do more than read contracts."
She wanted to retort, to remind him of everything he'd once said about art being impractical, fleeting. But the words caught in her throat. The children's laughter filled the space, and she felt suddenly exposed, fragile.
"Why here, Adrian?" she whispered.
His gaze softened, but his answer was maddeningly vague. "Because some things shouldn't stay broken forever."
Before she could ask what he meant, one of the kids tugged at her sleeve. "Miss Elena, can we start painting now?"
She knelt, grateful for the distraction, and smiled at the eager faces waiting. "Of course. Let's make something messy."
As brushes dipped into colors and little hands worked, she felt Adrian's presence at the edge of the room. Watching. Waiting.
No matter how much she tried to focus on the children, she couldn't ignore the truth settling in her bones:
Adrian Hale was back. Not as a fleeting ghost in a gallery, but here, in the corners of her everyday life.
And this time, she couldn't run.