Page 33 of Since the Day We Left

Arthur blinked rapidly, eyes darting from the canvas to Miles, then back again. He shook his head. “I was painting water ... When’d the fire start?”

“It’s okay.” Miles carefully pried the brush from his dad’s trembling hand. “Just got mixed up for a minute there.”

For a long moment, Arthur stared into the canvas. His breath came quicker at first, but slowly steadied, his chest rising and falling back into rhythm again. Each blink seemed to lift the haze from his eyes. He glanced at Wendi. “Sorry about that.”

She gave him a reassuring smile, resting her hand lightly on his arm. “It’s okay, Arthur. We’re here.”

Max padded over and nudged his head under Arthur’s palm.

Wendi’s eyes drifted from the canvas to Miles. Her unspoken question was clear.

Do I want to say it out loud?

The silence stretched out longer than it should have, becoming its own kind of answer.

Miles opened his mouth, then closed it again.He could change the subject ...

Wendi’s eyes stayed on his, not pushing, just waiting—a kind of patience that somehow made it harder to look away than if she’d asked directly.

His throat tightened, and he forced the words out. “The house fire I told you about ... Mom got me out through a window.” Miles swallowed hard. “The ceiling collapsed right after. She never made it out. Dad was at work when it happened.”

“Miles, I’m so, so sorry.” Wendi reached for his hand and closed her fingers around his.

“That’s why I became a firefighter,” he continued. “Thought I could save someone else’s mom, I guess ... until I froze up at that warehouse fire.”

The words sank into the space between them.

Miles had never voiced it like that before. He hadn’t meant to say it like that—hadn’t meant to say it at all. But there it was, out in the open, and somehow it felt ... freeing. He found it strange how the right words had always remained hidden behind the safe ones.

Over the years, the past had a way of convincing him he’d lost everything, that he was merely going through the motions of living while carrying the weight of what could never be changed. But something about Wendi—her quiet understanding, the warmth in her eyes that asked for nothing yet offered everything—made him dare to believe in tomorrows again.

“This isn’t right.” Arthur frowned at his half-finished painting. “There aren’t any houses at the cove.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Miles said, pushing himself to his feet. “Want me to set up a fresh canvas?”

Arthur shook his head. “No. I need to save my energy for the special painting.” He cleaned his brush. “That one matters most. Has to be ready by tomorrow.”

Clouds rolled in from the horizon and the first raindrops splattered onto them as they packed up the supplies. Arthur insisted on wrapping his flame-painted canvas. “Part of the story,” he said with unexpected clarity.

When they loaded the truck, Max stayed close to Arthur, nuzzling against him as if sensing his unease.

Before climbing into the passenger seat, Arthur paused, turning for a last look at the cove. His gazed lingered. Then he turned to Wendi and Miles. “This place remembers everything,” he said softly. “Even when we forget.”

13

Wendi

Wednesday

Thescentoflemonpolish filled the air as Wendi adjusted the framed pastel for the fifth time, stepping back to squint at it.

Crooked. Again.

She exhaled, nudged it a fraction to the left, and stepped back.

Better.

She glanced at the wall clock. Two hours from now, she’d know if The Painted Shell had a future.

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