The sunlight was diffused through a gauzy layer of clouds, painting the town in soft grays as Ava unlocked the gallery's door the next morning. The air smelled faintly of salt and damp earth, a reminder of the ocean's ever-present embrace.
She was greeted by silence. The kind of heavy, aching silence that seemed to amplify her loneliness. Ava set her bag on the counter and reached for the coffee she'd picked up from the café on her way in.
Her gaze fell on the stack of canvases in the corner, and for a moment, she considered ignoring them again. But Ethan's voice from the night before lingered in her mind: "If you ever feel like picking up a brush again... I think you'd be good at it."
With a sigh, Ava crossed the room and crouched beside the canvases. Dust clung to the edges of the frames, and the smell of aged paint filled her nose as she began pulling them out one by one.
The first painting stopped her cold. It was unfinished, but the shapes and colors were unmistakably her mother's work. Bold strokes of blue and gold swirled across the canvas, forming the vague outline of a sunrise over the sea. Ava could almost hear her mother's voice as she stared at it, soft and encouraging: "There's beauty in what's unfinished, Ava. It's where the story begins."
Her throat tightened as tears pricked her eyes. She hadn't been ready to face this, but now that it was in front of her, she couldn't look away.
The sound of the bell jingling startled her, and Ava quickly wiped her eyes before turning to see who had entered. Ethan stood in the doorway, his guitar case slung over his shoulder and his hair sticking up in unruly tufts, as though he'd just rolled out of bed.
"Morning," he said, his grin easy and warm. But his expression shifted when he saw her face. "Hey... you okay?"
Ava nodded quickly, though her voice betrayed her when she replied, "Fine. Just... sorting through some of my mom's stuff."
Ethan set his guitar down by the door and walked over, his gaze flicking to the canvas in her hands. He whistled softly. "That's beautiful. She was... really talented."
"She was," Ava murmured, brushing her fingers over the edge of the painting.
Ethan hesitated, then leaned against the counter beside her. "You don't have to do it all at once, you know. It's okay to take it slow."
Ava glanced at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. "You sound like you've done this before."
He smiled faintly. "Not exactly. But I know what it's like to carry something heavy and feel like you have to figure it all out right away."
The way he said it, with that quiet note of pain in his voice, made Ava want to ask more. But she stopped herself. She wasn't sure she was ready to hear it.
Later that afternoon, Ethan lingered in the gallery, idly strumming his guitar as Ava continued sorting through her mother's things.
"I have an idea," he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.
Ava looked up from the box of old flyers she was organizing. "Oh no. That's never a good start."
Ethan grinned, undeterred. "What if we did something together? Like, a mix of art and music. A small event or something to... I don't know, breathe some life into this place."
Ava stared at him, her skepticism evident. "You want me to throw an event when I can barely keep the walls from falling down?"
"It doesn't have to be big," Ethan said, setting his guitar aside. "Just... a few people. Something casual. You've got art. I've got music. It could work."
Ava hesitated, her instinctive resistance clashing with a small spark of curiosity. It had been so long since she'd thought about showing her work to anyone. The idea terrified her—but it also intrigued her.
"I'll think about it," she said finally.
Ethan's grin widened. "That's a yes in my book."
That evening, as Ava walked along the shore after closing the gallery, memories of her mother flooded her thoughts. She remembered the way her mother had stood in this same spot years ago, sketchbook in hand, capturing the curve of the waves with quick, confident strokes.
"You see that, Ava?" her mother had said, pointing to the horizon. "The way the light changes just before the sun dips below the water? That's where the magic is. Right there, in the in-between."
Ava had rolled her eyes at the time, impatient and skeptical. But now, as she stood there alone, she felt the weight of her mother's absence like a physical ache.
She closed her eyes, letting the sound of the waves fill her ears.
The smell of garlic and fresh herbs filled the air as Ava set two plates on the table in the small kitchen upstairs. She wasn't sure how Ethan had talked her into letting him stay for dinner, but now that he was here, she didn't mind as much as she thought she would.
"This is amazing," Ethan said around a mouthful of pasta. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
"My mom," Ava replied, smiling faintly. "She used to say art and cooking were the same thing. All about balance and knowing when to take risks."
Ethan's expression softened. "She sounds incredible."
"She was."
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the only sound the clink of silverware against plates.
Eventually, Ethan leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. "You know, I meant what I said earlier. About the event. It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be real."
Ava studied him, her defenses lowering just a little more. "I'll think about it," she said again, though this time, she meant it.
That night, after Ethan had left, Ava sat at her desk, sorting through a pile of old letters she'd found in one of her mother's boxes. Most were from gallery patrons or fellow artists, but one stood out—a handwritten note from her father.
Her heart clenched as she unfolded it, the words scrawled in his familiar, messy handwriting:
"Ava, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I hope one day you'll understand why I left. Your mother was stronger than I ever was, and I couldn't stand being the weak link in our family. I'm sorry for everything."
Tears blurred her vision as she read the letter again. She had spent years hating him for leaving, for abandoning her and her mother when they'd needed him most. But now, as she held the fragile paper in her hands, she wasn't sure what to feel.
She set the letter aside, her thoughts swirling as she stared out the window. The gallery felt quieter than ever, its shadows stretching long across the floor.