The gallery was quiet today.
Rain tapped gently against the windows, a soft rhythm that Luna had long since learned to paint by. The scent of oil paint and saltwater lingered in the air—a familiar blend, one that felt like home.
She stood before a new canvas, her brush poised just above the surface, hesitating for the first time in years.
Not out of fear.
Not out of doubt.
But because this painting was different.
It wasn't pulled from the town's forgotten past or whispered into her dreams by voices long silenced.
This one came from her own memory.
A moment she never wanted to lose.
She dipped the brush into a deep, warm gold—the color of late afternoon sun on the cliffs—and touched it to the canvas.
A child's laughter echoed faintly in her mind as she painted.
Soft curls. Bright eyes. A small hand reaching for hers.
Her daughter.
Luna smiled, adding more detail—tiny fingers wrapped around a seashell, bare feet pressed into damp sand, the hem of a little blue dress fluttering in the wind.
Behind them, the sea stretched wide and endless.
And beside them, standing with his hands in his pockets and a quiet smile playing at the corner of his lips, was Elias.
He had changed over the years—his hair a little grayer at the temples, his face lined with time—but not in the way that made him seem older. In the way that made him seem more . More present. More real.
They had built a life here, together.
Not without hardship.
Not without loss.
But they had built something lasting.
Something remembered.
There were still days when the past reached for her—when shadows flickered at the edge of her vision, when whispers curled through the wind like echoes from another time. But now, she didn't let them pull her under.
She invited them in.
She painted them.
She honored them.
And then she turned back to the present.
To the life she had chosen.
The gallery door chimed softly behind her.
She didn't turn right away.
"I know you're there," she said instead, adding a final stroke of light to her daughter's upturned face.
Elias stepped beside her, his presence steady and warm.
"She looks just like you," he murmured.
"Except the eyes," Luna replied. "Those are yours."
He chuckled quietly, watching the painting as if it held the same magic as the world outside.
"You think she'll remember all of this?" he asked.
"All of it?" She tilted her head. "Maybe not. But she'll remember what matters."
He nodded slowly. "And what if she forgets something important?"
Luna set down her brush and met his gaze.
"Then I'll remind her."
He smiled.
Outside, the rain softened to a hush.
Inside, the painting glowed with memory.
And somewhere beyond the window, their daughter ran across the shore, chasing the tide.
Still laughing.
Still whole.
Still remembered.