The rain began mid-morning, soft and steady, like a secret being told gently to the earth.
Mira sat on the window seat in her room, knees pulled up, sketchbook balanced on her thighs. The pages were mostly empty. A few lines here and there. Half-drawn buildings, scribbled-out concepts, ideas that never quite made it past the first spark.
Valemont had drained the rest out of her.
She stared out at the grey sky, watching water slide down the glass in rivulets. There was a kind of peace in the slowness of this town—even in the rain. A peace she hadn't known in years. For so long, silence had meant tension. Something left unsaid, something waiting to snap. But now, the quiet felt less like pressure and more like air. Still. Roomy.
A knock on the door broke the hush.
Her mother peeked in. "There's tea if you want," she said. "Fig and ginger."
Mira nodded. "Thanks. I'll be down in a minute."
But she didn't move right away.
Instead, she reached down and pulled out a thin, flat box from under the seat. She hadn't opened it in months. Inside: newspaper clippings, a name badge from her first firm, a photo of her and her father on her graduation day—both of them grinning. His arm was around her shoulder. He looked proud. She looked... younger. Lighter. Like someone who believed success would solve everything.
The ache returned suddenly, swift and deep. Her father had died just before her career really began to take shape. He'd never seen her land her first solo design. He hadn't been there when she made the front page of Modern Build for her museum renovation. He hadn't seen her fail either.
The burnout hadn't come all at once.
It came in missed deadlines, overnights at the office, clients who wanted glass when she wanted wood, emails at 2 a.m., renderings she stopped caring about. The joy she used to feel when she stepped into an empty lot and imagined it filled with lines, curves, and purpose—it had dulled. Eroded. Been chipped away by pressure and exhaustion.
And then, one day, it came in the form of an elevator mirror: hollow cheeks, tired eyes, and a stranger staring back.
She didn't cry often. But now, sitting in the quiet of the home where she first learned to hold a pencil, Mira let her head fall forward and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Not sobbing. Not breaking. Just... grieving.
It wasn't just about loss or stress.
It was about feeling like she'd lost herself somewhere between ambition and approval.
Her father had always said, "Design with feeling, not just with lines."
She'd forgotten that. Somewhere in Valemont, in those sleek offices with endless glass walls, she'd traded in her feeling for speed. Innovation for validation.
Mira gently set the photo aside and picked up her pencil. Her hand hesitated. Then, slowly, it began to move.
No pressure. No client brief. No awards to chase.
Just a small cabin under a tree, windows wide open, light spilling out.
Maybe it wasn't a design meant to impress anyone.
Maybe it was one to help her remember.
—
Later that afternoon, Mira stepped into the kitchen, still holding her sketchbook against her chest. Her mom was slicing pears at the counter.
"Thought I'd find you up there for hours," she said with a smile.
"I was thinking," Mira replied softly.
Her mother didn't press. Just slid a mug toward her. "Still hot."
Mira took it, warming her hands around the ceramic. "Do you ever feel like... you're not the person you used to be?"
Her mom looked up, brows raised. "All the time."
Mira gave a dry laugh. "No, I mean—like you're wearing the right clothes, saying the right things, but somewhere along the line you stopped being you."
Her mother leaned back against the counter. "I lost your father, Mira. I know exactly what you mean. And I also know, we don't come back to who we were. We grow toward who we need to be."
Mira looked down at her tea. "I'm not sure who that is yet."
"That's fine," her mom said. "Take your time. This place will hold space for you until you figure it out."
And for the first time in months, Mira believed that might be true.