Monday mornings at Maple Harbor Elementary always had a kind of restless energy — the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile floors, the smell of coffee and copy paper, and the faint buzz of gossip that never quite stayed in the teacher's lounge.
Hannah tried to tune it out, as usual. But this morning, it wasn't so easy.
She was halfway through grading spelling tests when Principal Whitaker tapped on her open door.
"Got a minute?"
"Of course," she said, setting down her pen.
He stepped inside, cheerful as always, holding a clipboard full of forms. "We're finally doing that community outreach art program I've been talking about since last year. The idea's to get the students involved in something visual — murals, maybe some local artist mentorships. Thought it'd be good for morale."
Hannah nodded, already sensing where this was going.
Whitaker grinned. "Turns out, we got lucky. Emma Lawson's agreed to help us organize it. You know her, right?"
Her pulse quickened, but she kept her tone even. "We've met. She's very talented."
"Exactly. She's got the kind of name that'll draw attention to the program — and it doesn't hurt she's a hometown girl." He paused, studying her. "She asked if she could have a faculty liaison. Someone to coordinate with on the school side."
Hannah's throat felt dry. "And you're asking if I'll do it?"
"I was hoping you'd say yes. You're great with the kids, and honestly, you've got a calmness that balances her energy." He smiled. "Besides, I think you two would make a good team."
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I'd be happy to help."
Whitaker beamed, already scribbling her name onto the form. "Perfect. She's coming by later this week to go over the plan. I'll send you both the details."
When he left, the classroom suddenly felt too quiet. Hannah stared down at the tests on her desk, her heart thudding in a steady, nervous rhythm.
Team, she thought.
The word shouldn't have made her stomach twist the way it did.
That afternoon, as she walked through town after school, she caught whispers of the news spreading — Mrs. Kent at the bakery mentioning "Emma Lawson's art thing," a few parents chatting outside the post office. It was small-town life at its finest: everyone knew before she'd even processed it herself.
When she reached the corner café, she hesitated outside the window. Emma was inside, sitting by herself with a sketchbook open, hair falling loose around her face. She looked absorbed, her pencil moving quickly over the page.
Hannah could've walked in. Could've said hello.
Instead, she stood there for a few seconds too long, watching from the sidewalk as the sunlight shifted across the glass.
Emma looked up then — almost as if she felt it — and their eyes met through the reflection.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Emma smiled — soft, knowing — and lifted her coffee cup in a small, wordless greeting.
Hannah smiled back before turning away, her pulse still unsteady.
The air felt different when she walked home — sharper, charged somehow, as if the whole town could feel that something was about to begin.