Chapter 13
Chapter 13: The Smell of Oil Paint
Before the nightmare began, Ava had been an artist.
Her old home had been devoid of color. Her ex-husband had detested the smell of turpentine and oil paints, calling her hobby "childish" and "messy." Over the years, she had packed away her canvases, hiding them in the attic along with her spirit.
One Saturday afternoon, Arthur walked into the sunroom carrying a massive, heavy cardboard box.
"What is that?" Ava asked, looking up from her laptop.
Arthur set it down with a grunt. He opened the flaps, revealing a beautiful, handcrafted mahogany easel, a set of professional-grade oil paints, and a stack of blank, stretched canvases.
Ava’s breath caught in her throat.
"Dad..."
"This house has too many blank walls, Ava," Arthur said softly, wiping his hands on his trousers. "It's time you filled them."
Ava walked over, running her trembling fingers over the smooth wood of the easel. The faint, metallic smell of the paint tubes brought a rush of memories flooding back.
"I don't even know what to paint anymore," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "It's been so long. I feel empty."
"You aren't empty," Arthur corrected gently. "You're a blank canvas. There's a difference."
That evening, after Leo went to sleep, Ava set up the easel. She squeezed a dollop of bright, cerulean blue onto the palette.
May you like
She didn't paint the dark, stormy abstract pieces that used to reflect her internal pain.
She painted the backyard. She painted the golden sunlight, the green grass, and the iridescent bubbles. She painted her survival.
