The sun peeked through the tall windows of the therapy center for the first time in weeks, its golden light stretching across the wooden floor like a silent invitation. Ava stood barefoot in the art room, brushes in hand, the scent of oils and turpentine lingering in the air. For once, the silence didn't feel heavy—it felt full.
She had just finished a piece inspired by Eli's newest melody. It wasn't a portrait, not exactly—it was a canvas drenched in vibrant reds and cool blues, textured with thick strokes and jagged swirls. It was a painting of music, of movement, of raw, beating emotion.
And she wanted to show him.
She found Eli in the courtyard, sitting on the old bench beneath the oak tree, sunlight dancing through the leaves onto his closed eyes. His fingers were moving gently against the worn armrest, as if playing a melody only he could hear.
Ava hesitated, then stepped forward. "Eli?"
He turned his head slightly, smiling. "You sound...lighter today."
She laughed softly, brushing a curl from her face. "Maybe I am. I have something to show you. Or rather—something I want you to feel."
He nodded, rising slowly and offering his hand. She took it, guiding him back inside. His touch was steady now, no longer flinching like it once did.
Back in the art room, she placed his hands on the edges of the canvas.
"This," she whispered, "is what your song looked like to me."
Eli's hands began to move across the painting—feeling the ridges of thick brush strokes, the smooth patches where she'd wiped tears away, the patterns she had carved into the drying paint with the tip of a palette knife.
He stopped.
"This," he murmured, "feels like...rain turning into fire. Then into wings."
Ava's breath caught in her throat.
"That's exactly it."
He laughed—genuinely, for the first time since they met. The sound was low, rough, but real. It shook something loose in her chest.
"What's funny?" she asked.
"I just realized," Eli said, his fingers still on the painting, "that I thought I'd forgotten how to imagine colors. But now... I can see them again. Through you."
She stepped closer, voice softer now. "You brought color back to my world, too, Eli."
Their hands met on the canvas, fingers overlapping on a patch of golden paint. And for one suspended breath, the world held still—bathed not in light, or sight, or sound—but in something deeper.
In a glimpse of joy.