HAZEL'S POV
I walked for six blocks before I realized I was still holding the tube of red paint.
My hand was clenched around it so tight my knuckles were white. I stopped on the sidewalk, people passing me on both sides. A woman with a stroller gave me a funny look. I probably looked crazy—wearing my nice kitchen clothes, holding a dried-up paint tube, standing frozen on a Tuesday morning.
Where was I going?
The question echoed in my empty head. I hadn't thought past the front door. I didn't have my wallet. No phone. Just a sketchbook under my arm and paint in my fist.
I looked around. I was in a part of the city Alex would call "transitional." Not yet fancy, but getting there. There were old brick buildings and new coffee shops. I saw a sign down the street with a picture of a paintbrush.
A sign that said: "The Lane Gallery – Supplies & Studio Rentals."
My feet moved before my brain caught up. I walked toward it, my heart beating fast in my chest. The door had a little bell that jingled when I pushed it open.
The inside smelled like heaven. Like wood and coffee and fresh canvas. The walls were covered in art—some framed, some just leaning. There was a counter with paints and brushes, and behind it, a man was unpacking a box.
He looked up. He had kind eyes and paint smudges on his jeans. "Morning," he said. "Can I help you?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I just stood there, holding my old tube of paint.
He put down the box. "You okay?"
I nodded, then shook my head. I felt tears coming, hot and sudden. I tried to blink them back.
"Whoa," he said softly. He came around the counter. "Hey. It's okay. Breathe."
I took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry. I just… I need…" I held up the tube of paint. "This is dead. It's all I have."
He took the tube from my hand gently. He squeezed it. It was hard as a rock.
"Yeah, that's gone," he said. He looked at me, not at my expensive clothes, but at my face. "You paint?"
"I used to," I whispered.
"What happened?"
"I got married."
The words hung between us. He didn't smile. He didn't look sorry for me. He just nodded, like it made sense.
"I'm Asher," he said. "This is my place."
"Hazel," I said.
"Well, Hazel," he said, handing me back the dead paint. "First things first. You need new paint."
"I don't have any money," I said, embarrassed. "I walked out without my purse."
"I figured," he said. He went behind the counter and pulled out a fresh tube of crimson. The same color as my dead one. He put it on the counter. "This is on the house. A welcome-back gift."
"I can't—"
"You can," he said. "Every painter needs a fresh start sometimes. Consider it a starter kit." He pushed the tube toward me. "You want to use it?"
I looked around the gallery. "Here?"
"No," he said, smiling. "In the back. I have a studio space. One of my renters just moved out. It's empty. You can use it today. No charge."
I stared at him. "Why would you do that for a stranger?"
He shrugged. "Because you walked in here holding a dead paint tube like it was a life preserver. I know that look. You need to make something. Today."
He was right. I needed to make something. Or I would break.
"Okay," I said. My voice was small.
He led me through a curtain to the back. It was a big, messy room with light pouring in from high windows. There were easels and tables and canvases stacked against the wall. In the corner was a small, empty space with just a stool and an easel.
"That one's yours for today," Asher said. He pulled a clean canvas from a stack and set it on the easel. He put the fresh paint tube on a little table. "Brushes are over there. Anything else you need, just yell."
Then he left me alone.
I stood in front of the blank white canvas. I hadn't painted in three years. My hands felt strange. Empty. I picked up a brush. It felt both familiar and foreign, like meeting an old friend you've grown apart from.
I opened the new paint. The smell hit me first—sharp and alive. I squeezed some onto a palette. The red was so bright. So bold.
What should I paint?
I thought of Alex's contract. The black border. The clean lines. The signature at the bottom.
I dipped my brush into the red. And I made the first stroke.
It wasn't a picture. It was just a slash of color. Angry and messy. I made another. And another. Soon I wasn't thinking. I was just moving. Red on white. My arm ached. My eyes burned. I painted until my heart stopped pounding. I painted until I could breathe again.
I don't know how long I stood there. Time stopped. There was just the canvas and the paint and the quiet.
When I finally stepped back, my hands were covered in red. The canvas was a storm of it. Swirls and slashes and thick, heavy lines. It looked like a heartbreak. It looked like a scream.
"Wow."
I turned. Asher was standing in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. He was looking at my painting.
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. "It's a mess. I can clean it—"
"No," he said, walking over. He handed me a mug. "Don't you dare. This is honest."
I looked at the painting again. Now that I was seeing it, I felt naked. I had put everything on that canvas—the contract, the cold kitchen, the empty years.
"It's not very good," I mumbled into my coffee.
"Good?" Asher laughed. "Who cares about good? It's real. That's better than good." He pointed at a thick line in the center. "This part here. That's fury. I can feel it."
He saw it. He actually saw it.
Tears filled my eyes again. I was so tired of crying.
"My husband gave me a contract this morning," I said, the words tumbling out. "An open marriage contract. He said it was an update. Like a phone update. He said I should sign it and not be emotional."
Asher didn't say anything. He just listened.
"So I signed it," I said. "And then I walked out. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know where I'm going. I have nowhere to go."
"You're here," he said simply. "And you're painting. That's a start."
I looked around the studio. The light was golden now. It must be afternoon.
"I should go home," I said, but the words felt wrong.
"Do you want to go home?" Asher asked.
I thought of the empty penthouse. The contract on the counter. Alex coming back from his meeting, expecting everything to be normal.
"No," I said. "I don't."
"Then stay," he said. "The studio's empty. You can rent it. It's cheap. Well, cheaper than most places."
"I can't," I said. "I don't have a job. My money is… his money."
Asher nodded slowly. "Okay. New plan. You work here part-time. I need help in the front. Sorting supplies, helping customers. It doesn't pay much, but it pays enough for the studio rent. And you can paint whenever you want."
I stared at him. "You don't even know me."
"I know you're a painter who's been lost," he said. "And I know what that feels like. I was lost once too. Someone gave me a chance. Now I'm giving you one."
My throat felt tight. "Why?"
"Because the world needs more art," he said, smiling. "And less contracts."
I looked at my painting. The red was still wet, gleaming. I looked at my hands, stained with color. For the first time in years, I felt like myself. Not Hazel Sterling. Just Hazel.
"Okay," I said. "Yes."
"Good," Asher said. He took my empty coffee mug. "First shift starts tomorrow. Ten a.m. Don't be late."
"I won't," I said.
He walked back to the front, leaving me alone with my painting. I cleaned my brushes slowly, watching the red swirl down the sink. I covered the painting with a cloth. My secret. My first step.
When I walked out of the gallery, the sun was lower in the sky. I still didn't have my purse or my phone. I still didn't know what I was doing.
But I had a job. I had a studio. I had a tube of red paint.
And for now, that was enough.