The days passed quietly, but Lia's presence next door was impossible to ignore. She seemed to thrive on activity, constantly unpacking, rearranging, or humming around her yard. Nate often caught glimpses of her through his studio window, her energy a sharp contrast to his own reclusive existence.
One crisp evening, as the golden-orange sky began to darken, Nate ventured outside to clean his brushes on the porch. The rhythmic motion of his hands and the faint scent of turpentine were soothing. He barely noticed Lia approaching until her voice broke the quiet.
"Hey, Picasso."
Nate looked up to see her standing at the edge of his property, a playful grin on her face. She was holding a mug of what looked like coffee, dressed in a cozy sweater and jeans.
"What do you want, Lia?" he asked, not unkindly but with an air of resignation.
"To talk," she said, stepping closer. "Or at least to see if you're as grumpy as you seem."
"Talking isn't really my thing."
"Noted," Lia said, sitting down on the steps of his porch anyway. "But lucky for you, it's my thing. I talk enough for two people."
Nate sighed, sitting back in his chair and eyeing her warily. She sipped her coffee, unfazed by his lack of enthusiasm.
"So," she began, "you're an artist. Do you sell your work, or is it more of a 'paint-and-ponder' situation?"
"Both," he replied after a pause. "Mostly sell online."
"Interesting." She leaned back, resting her elbows on the step behind her. "And why Cedarwood? Seems a little... quiet for someone with your talent."
Nate bristled slightly. "Quiet is good. Less distractions."
"Or less people asking questions," she countered, her tone light but probing.
He didn't answer, focusing instead on the brush in his hand. Lia watched him for a moment, then switched gears.
"You know," she said, "I used to paint. Not well, but I enjoyed it. Haven't done it in years, though."
That caught Nate's attention. He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "Why'd you stop?"
She hesitated, her smile faltering for the first time. "Life got busy, I guess. Work, expectations, you know how it is."
Nate recognized the shift in her demeanor, the way her gaze drifted to the horizon as if avoiding the question. For a moment, he considered pressing her, but the vulnerability in her voice stopped him.
"You should try again," he said instead, his voice softer.
Lia looked at him, surprised. "Maybe I will. If you promise not to laugh at my stick figures."
"I don't laugh," he said with a faint smirk.
"That's a shame. You've got a good one," she quipped, standing and brushing off her jeans. "Alright, Mr. Mysterious, I'll leave you to your brushes and brooding. But don't be surprised if I show up with a canvas one day."
Nate watched her walk away, her figure silhouetted against the setting sun. For the first time in years, he found himself wondering what it might be like to let someone in.
As the evening deepened and the stars began to appear, Nate returned to his studio. His latest painting—an autumn scene of golden leaves falling into a tranquil river—felt incomplete. Almost without thinking, he dipped his brush into a palette of bright, warm colors and began adding something new.
A figure on the riverbank. A girl with messy hair and a curious smile.