Morning came bright and sharp, the air carrying a hint of sea breeze through the open classroom windows.
Hannah arrived early, as always, but this time the quiet didn't feel like waiting. The day before—coffee, the pier, the hush of evening—still shimmered faintly in her thoughts.
By the time Emma came in, sleeves rolled, hair tied up loosely, the room already smelled of paint and chalk dust.
"Good morning," Hannah said.
"Good morning," Emma replied, smiling as though the words meant something special.
They settled easily into their rhythm. The students trickled in, buzzing about weekend adventures and soggy shoes from the rain. Brushes clattered, colors mixed, and the usual hum of the art room filled the air.
Hannah watched Emma work with the kids—patient, funny, endlessly curious. She knelt beside one student's desk, showing him how to layer colors for depth, and when she looked up, her eyes met Hannah's across the room. It was a simple look, a shared spark of humor and warmth, but it stayed with Hannah all morning.
At lunch, when the last of the students drifted out, Emma leaned against the table, stretching her arms. "I think they're finally starting to get it," she said. "The mural might actually look like a mural soon."
Hannah laughed. "That's high praise coming from you."
"I mean it. You're good with them. They trust you."
Hannah shook her head. "They trust you, Emma. I just keep order."
Emma tilted her head. "Maybe. But order can be its own kind of art."
Hannah smiled, sipping her coffee. "You have a way of making everything sound poetic."
Emma grinned. "Only when I mean it."
The rest of the day passed in that same gentle rhythm—easy, familiar, threaded with laughter and quiet moments of connection.
When the final bell rang, they stayed behind to clean up, the sun slanting golden through the tall windows.
Emma stacked the brushes in the sink. "You know," she said, "I don't think I've ever had a job that felt this easy to show up for."
"Because it's art?" Hannah teased.
"Because it's you."
The words were light, said with a smile—but they lingered, like the aftertaste of sweetness.
Hannah felt a warmth bloom in her chest, steady and calm. "Then I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was one."
Outside, the sound of gulls drifted faintly through the windows. The mural's sketches lay drying on the tables—colorful, full of promise.
For the first time in years, the future didn't feel like something to brace against. It felt like something unfolding.