CHAPTER 6: A Life Measured In Paychecks
I woke up to the sound of my ceiling fan clicking in that slow, tired the way it does when the weather is too hot and the electricity barely cooperates.
For a moment, I stayed still, listening to it drag and wobble overhead. The air in the room is warm already, even though morning hasn't fully arrived.
My eyes felt gritty, my body felt heavy, I didn't remember falling asleep last night. I only remembered lying awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my heartbeat to slow after the nightmare.
It never really did.
I pushed myself up, rubbing sleep from my eye,I checked the time on my phone,
6:11 am.
Too early to function, too late to go back to sleep.
I swung my legs out of bed, my feet touched the cool floor, and the small shock woke me a little more. I pulled my hair into a loosed bun and walked to the sink.
My apartment is so small I can reach the sink with three steps, I splashed cold water on my face and gripped the edge of the counter.
"Get through the day," I whispered to myself,
Its been my morning prayer for years.
Rent is due next week, I already know I don't have enough. My fridge is almost empty, and my art supplies are running out again. Every tube of paint I bought felt like a sacrifice, every canvas is a risk.
But I kept going.
Because if I stop painting, I stop breathing.
I got dressed in my usual clothes — jeans and a clean shirt. Nothing fancy, nothing new. I grabbed my bag and stepped outside into the hallway.
The light flickered overhead, buzzing weakly. My neighbors are already awake, talking loudly through thin walls. Someone's baby crying and another person is arguing on the phone.
Life moved around me, but I felt like I'm walking through fog.
I stepped outside the building and started the ten-minute walk to the art and printing shop. The morning air is soft and gray.
The road is quiet except for a few early commuters and a stray dog trotting across the street.
My phone stayed in my pocket the entire walk. I refused to check it again, i know I'm waiting for something —maybe a message, or a sign , but looking won't make anything come faster.
When I reached the shop, I unlocked the glass door with the spare key my boss gave me months ago. He trusts me because I'm always early, always calm, and never caused trouble.
The moment I stepped inside, the familiar scent hits me , ink, paper, dried paint, wood shavings. It's comforting and sad at the same time. Like breathing in the truth of my life.
I switched on the lights,they flickered once and settled. The shelves are waiting, dusty counters, brushes sat in jars like tired soldiers.
My boss(Mr Jason) arrived, fifteen minutes later, holding a cup of coffee, dressed in his casual outfit and holding a suitcase.
"You're early," he said
"I couldn't sleep," I answered
He nodded like he understood, even though he probably doesn't. Mr Jason is friendly, kind , and way too caring and I like him for that.
Work started the same way it always does. I organized the front section, straightened sketch pads and lined up watercolor sets. I stacked printing paper in neat rows and refilled the shelves with new deliveries.
There's something calming about it, something steady. My mind drifted while my hands worked.
I thought about the email from Paint Prime,
10 a.m. today,
A skills assessment,
A possible private restoration project,
A chance I shouldn't have been given.
I didn't understood why they reached out, but I said yes.
Because hunger makes decisions for you.
By 7:30 a.m. my nerves started to tingle. I kept glancing at the clock. My boss noticed.
"You're look restless," he says, sorting receipts.
"I have an appointment by 10"
"Something important?"
"Maybe"
He nodded again,he never asks too many questions and i appreciate that.
While he handled the counter, I carried a stack of printed posters to the back room. The room is warm and smelled like cardboard and glue. I placed the posters on the cutter and started trimming the edges.
Halfway through, the blade snapped.
I froze for a moment, staring at the broken metal. Then I sighed and push my hair out of my face, my hands felt shaky, even though the task is simple. I've done this a thousand times, today everything feels heavier.
I replaced the blade slowly, carefully. Then I kept cutting.
By 8:30am my fingers are stained with ink, and my back ached, and my shirt sticks to my skin with sweat. My boss gave me bottled water and told me to take a break.
I sat on the stool behind the counter and finally checked my phone.
Still no new email, and definitely no email from Wynford Corporation.
But I guessed they will find me when the story is ready for them.
I placed my phone face-down on my lap and breathe out slowly.
I grabbed a small notebook from my bag and sketchy to calm myself. Quick lines, soft shapes, nothing special. Just motion.
My fingers moved as if they're trying to pull something forward, something hidden.
It doesn't work. My heart won't settle.
At 9 am., my boss cleared his throat.
"You're leaving, right?"
"Yes"
"You sure you're okay?"
I nodded
Even though I'm not.
I cleaned my hands, packed my bag, and clock out.
As I walked out into the daylight, the sun is bright overhead, casting long shadows on the street. I should head straight to Paint Prime, but my feet slowed down.
What if they reject me?
What if they take one look at me and see someone who shouldn't be there?
I shook my head and kept walking.
The closer I got to the tall glass building, the tighter my chest feels. I've passed Paint Prime many times before. It's beautiful and intimidating , shiny floors, huge windows, art sculptures in the lobby.
It felt like a different world
A world I don't belong to.
I stopped outside the revolving doors and stared at my reflection in the glass,
Tired eyes,
Paint on my fingers,
Cheap clothes,
A dream too big for my pockets.
"Don't run," I whispered.
I took a slow breath and stepped inside
The lobby is cold and bright. A woman at the reception desk looked up.
"Good afternoon, How may I help you?"
"I'm here for an assessment, For a restoration project"
"Name?"
"Eva"
She checked something on her screen, nodded, and gestured toward the elevator.
"Fourth floor, Room 4B. They're expecting you."
The elevator ride felt too fast and too slow at the same time. I gripped my bag straps to keep my hands from shaking.
When the doors opened, I stepped into a quiet hallway painted in soft cream tones. Room 4B is at the end, the door is half open.
I pushed it gently
Inside, a woman with silver glasses sat at a long table covered with tools, brushes, swabs, and old frames. She looked up.
"Eva?"
"Yes."
"You're on time,Good."
She gestured to the seat across from her
"We'll begin with simple tests"
I sat slowly, my palms are damped.
She placed a small damaged canvas in front of me.
"Fix the tear, match the color, blend the texture. Don't rush."
I nodded,then I began
Minutes stretch into focus. My fingers moved with surprising steadiness, I patched the tear, stroke the color into place, blend tiny spots until the fibers align again.
For the first time today, my mind went still.
When I finished, she studied my work for a long moment.
Then she looked at me with a strange expression.
"You're gifted.," she said
I blinked, unsure how to respond.
She gave me a small card,
"Go home, we will contact you."
That's it,
No details,
No promises,
I left the building with a mix of relief and confusion twisting inside me.
The sky has turned orange. The sun sits low, warming the streets. As I walked home, my steps felt lighter but my mind felt heavier.
I reached my apartment, closed the door behind me, and sat on my bed.
I checked my phone again
Still no message from Wynford Corporation.
But I'm not worried anymore
Not the way I was this morning.
Because deep inside me, i felt they will find me,
When the story is ready for them.
And somehow,
I believe it.