The rain came soft and steady that morning, blurring the windows of the house with a gentle mist. Mira sat curled up on the living room couch, a worn throw blanket draped across her lap, her sketchbook open but untouched. Pencil in hand, she stared at the page, but the lines wouldn't come.
The power had flickered once and gone out — no TV humming, no kettle boiling, just the soft drip of rain and the ticking of the old wall clock.
It was too quiet.
She wasn't used to this kind of silence anymore. In the city, there was always something — horns, footsteps, buzzing lights. But here, in this sleepy little town, silence had weight. It pressed against her chest and unearthed things she'd spent years packing away.
She flipped the page, then another. Each one showed lines she'd drawn months ago — angles, towers, concepts that once thrilled her.
But now, they just looked empty.
She tossed the sketchbook aside.
Her fingers clenched into the blanket. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was something deeper — like her creativity had collapsed under the pressure of city deadlines, perfectionism, and ambition. Like she'd been designing things she no longer believed in. Things her father would have called "beautiful but soulless."
That thought cracked something open.
She rose and drifted upstairs to the study — once her father's office. It smelled faintly of old paper and cedarwood, and the desk sat just as he'd left it, save for a fine layer of dust. She pulled open a drawer and found a stack of blueprints — some finished, some half-done, a few hand-drawn sketches she remembered watching him work on.
Her throat tightened.
Mira sat at the edge of the desk and ran her hand over a blueprint labeled "Cedar Haven" — a home he was designing for someone who had never built it. It was simple, cozy, with wide windows and a wraparound porch. A place meant for peace.
He had believed in more than buildings. He believed in homes.
And she had been trying to forget all of that.
When the tears came, they didn't come in loud sobs. Just a quiet stream, dripping silently onto the page.
---
Later that day, she met Zuri at the café down the street. The storm had passed, but the clouds still loomed thick and low.
"You okay?" Zuri asked, stirring her drink.
Mira nodded slowly. "I just had… a morning."
"Memory lane hit you hard?"
"Yeah. I guess I didn't realize how much I left behind when I left."
Zuri gave her a gentle look. "You don't have to figure it all out today, you know. It's okay to pause."
Mira smiled faintly, eyes flicking to the window, where raindrops still trailed down the glass. "I'm trying."
And for the first time, she meant it.