Darius didn't plan to walk past Isolde's house the next afternoon, but his feet took him there anyway. The sky was overcast for once—thick gray clouds holding the heat close to the ground like a blanket no one asked for. Sweat prickled along his neck before he'd gone two blocks. He told himself he was just stretching his legs, burning off the restless energy that had kept him up again last night. But when he saw the pale-yellow bungalow on the corner, the folding table still set up in the front yard, he slowed.
Isolde was there, cross-legged on the grass this time, sketchpad balanced on her knees. She wore loose black linen pants rolled at the ankles and a cropped charcoal tank top that left her midriff bare when she leaned forward to draw. Her platinum hair was loose today, falling in a silver curtain over one shoulder, strands catching the muted light. Barefoot again, toes curled into the grass, a smudge of charcoal already on her cheek like war paint.
She didn't look up right away. Her pencil moved in quick, sure strokes—something dark and swirling, shadows folding into shapes that almost looked like figures reaching for each other. When she finally sensed him standing at the edge of the yard, she lifted her head slowly, green eyes meeting his without surprise.
"You came," she said, voice soft and halting, like the words had to travel a long way before they reached her mouth.
"Didn't plan to," he admitted.
Her lips curved—just a fraction. "Plans are overrated."
She set the pencil down, closed the sketchpad halfway, then patted the grass beside her. "Sit. If you want."
He hesitated. Then stepped onto the lawn, lowered himself beside her. The grass was cool under his jeans, damp from morning dew that hadn't burned off yet. He stretched his legs out, boots planted wide, elbows on his knees.
She opened the pad again, but didn't draw right away. Just looked at the page—then at him.
"You don't have to talk," she said. "I like quiet company."
He nodded. "Good. I'm not much for words these days."
She gave a small, knowing hum. "Words can be heavy."
They sat in silence for a while. The neighborhood moved around them in slow motion: a car rolling past, kids shouting a few houses down, the faint scent of someone's barbecue starting up. Isolde picked up her pencil again, started shading something on the page—long, careful strokes that built depth out of nothing.
After a few minutes she tilted the pad toward him. The drawing was raw: two figures in a storm of lines, one reaching, the other turning away. Not quite touching. Shadows swallowed half their faces.
"That's… us?" he asked.
"Not exactly." She traced a finger along the edge of one figure's outline. "More like… the space between. The place where reaching stops feeling safe."
He stared at it longer than he meant to. The lines felt familiar—pulled tight, frayed at the ends, like scar tissue on paper.
"You draw what hurts?" he asked.
"Sometimes." She set the pad down between them. "Sometimes I draw what might heal. This one's still deciding."
He rubbed his left shoulder without thinking—slow circles over the scar. She noticed. Didn't comment. Just watched his hand move.
"Does it hurt all the time?" she asked quietly.
"Most days."
She nodded. "Mine too." She pulled up the sleeve of her tank top just enough to show the inside of her upper arm—a thin, pale line, faded but visible. "Old. From before I moved here. Someone who thought he could leave marks that wouldn't show."
Darius's jaw tightened. "He still around?"
"No." Her voice was flat, final. "I left first. Took the drawings with me. Left the bruises behind."
He looked at her—really looked. The way she held herself, not fragile but careful, like she'd learned the difference between bending and breaking.
"You ever think about going back?" he asked.
"Every day." She let the sleeve fall. "Then I draw instead. Turns the memory into something I can hold. Something I can close."
He exhaled slow. "Wish I could do that."
"You could." She picked up the pencil, offered it to him. "Even if it's just lines. Doesn't have to be good."
He stared at the pencil like it might bite. Then took it. The wood was warm from her hand.
She opened to a blank page, set the pad on his lap.
"No rules," she said. "Just move."
He hesitated. Then pressed the tip to the paper. Started with a single line—jagged, uneven, running from one corner to the other. Then another. Crossing it. Then a shape—rough, almost a shoulder, a line down the back that looked too much like his scar. He kept going. No plan. Just motion.
Isolde watched without speaking. Her breathing was steady beside him.
When he finally stopped, the page was chaos: dark strokes overlapping, shadows bleeding into each other. It didn't look like anything specific. But it felt like something.
He handed the pad back.
She studied it for a long moment. Then smiled—small, real.
"It's honest," she said.
"Yeah."
She closed the sketchbook, hugged it to her chest. "You can keep it. Or I can keep it. Either way."
"Keep it," he said.
She nodded.
They sat a while longer. The clouds thickened overhead, promising rain that might actually fall this time. A breeze moved through the yard, carrying the scent of ozone and cut grass.
Isolde spoke quietly. "Come back whenever. Even if you don't want to draw. Just… sit."
He looked at her—silver hair shifting in the wind, green eyes steady.
"Maybe," he said.
She smiled again. "I'll take maybe."
He stood. She stayed seated, watching him go.
At the sidewalk he paused, glanced back. She had already opened the pad again, pencil moving—quick, sure, turning his chaos into something new.
He walked home slow, hands in his pockets.
The ache in his shoulder was still there.
But for the first time, it felt like something he could maybe draw around.