The muted hum of the city beyond the window barely reached Yuki’s small studio, muffled by the thick silence she preferred. The only sound was the rhythmic glide of her brush across the canvas, each stroke deliberate yet hesitant, as if the paint might rebel against her intentions at any moment.

The painting was almost done—a single tree standing defiantly in the center of an endless field. Its twisted branches reached skyward, barren but unyielding. Yuki stared at it, biting her lip. Something was missing, but she couldn’t figure out what. She leaned closer, the faint scent of linseed oil and acrylic filling her lungs.

“This is stupid,” she muttered under her breath, dropping the brush into a jar of murky water. It made a soft clink as it hit the bottom.

She stood back, wiping her hands on her oversized hoodie, smudging streaks of brown and green paint across the fabric. The upcoming exhibition loomed over her like a storm cloud, its weight pressing on her chest. People would see this. People would judge this. Worse, they might understand it.

Yuki shook her head. “No. It’s just a painting. Just lines and colors.”

A soft meow interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Turning, she saw Sora, her grey tabby, perched on the windowsill. His tail flicked lazily as he stared at her, his green eyes filled with the kind of calm confidence she envied.

“I know, I know,” she said, sighing. “Dinner time, right? But I can’t stop now.”

Sora blinked, unimpressed.

She turned back to the canvas. The gallery had given her a prime spot for her first-ever exhibition, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t deserve it. Her art wasn’t flashy or bold like the others she’d seen. It was quiet, personal—a glimpse into a world she barely shared with anyone.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, breaking her thoughts. Yuki glanced at the screen: “Art Exhibition Setup – Tomorrow at 9 AM.”

She stared at the notification for a long moment before turning it off. The knot in her stomach tightened.

“This is my chance,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

But the words felt hollow.

Morning came too soon. The cold winter air nipped at her cheeks as she loaded her paintings into the car, her breath visible in the frosty air. The streets were quiet, the world still wrapped in the haze of dawn.

By the time she arrived at the gallery, the scene inside was bustling. Artists and volunteers moved in every direction, carrying easels, setting up sculptures, and chatting animatedly.

Yuki hesitated at the entrance, gripping the handle of her canvas case like it might anchor her. Her heart pounded as she scanned the room. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, their movements confident and purposeful. She felt like an outsider, intruding on a world that wasn’t hers.

“Hey! You must be Yuki.”

The cheerful voice startled her, and she turned to see a woman with short-cropped hair and a clipboard walking toward her.

“I’m Ayumi, one of the coordinators,” the woman said, smiling warmly. “Let me show you your space.”

Yuki nodded, unable to find her voice, and followed Ayumi through the maze of displays. Her eyes darted around, catching glimpses of other artists’ works—bold abstracts, intricate portraits, and sculptures that seemed to breathe.

“This is you,” Ayumi said, stopping in front of a blank wall illuminated by soft, warm light. “It’s a great spot. Let me know if you need help setting up!”

“Thank you,” Yuki murmured, her voice barely audible.

Once Ayumi walked away, Yuki exhaled slowly. The space was simple but perfect. She unpacked her paintings carefully, arranging them in a way that felt cohesive. Each piece was a fragment of herself—a memory, a thought, a feeling she could never quite put into words.

When she stepped back to survey the display, a faint flicker of pride bloomed in her chest. But it was quickly drowned out by the familiar whispers of self-doubt.

By evening, the gallery was alive with energy. Guests wandered through the space, their voices a gentle hum that filled the room. Yuki stood off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sweater as she watched people move past her work.

She couldn’t tell what they were thinking. Were they impressed? Confused? Indifferent? Her chest tightened with every passing second, and she considered slipping out quietly before anyone noticed her.

That was when she saw her.

A woman stood in front of Yuki’s painting of the lone tree, her head tilted slightly as she studied it. She had long auburn hair that fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her posture was relaxed, almost casual. But there was something in her expression—soft, contemplative—that made Yuki freeze.

The woman stepped closer, her fingers brushing her chin as she leaned in to examine the details. The light from above illuminated her face, highlighting the faint freckles on her cheeks.

Yuki’s heart pounded. Should she say something? No. What would she even say?

The woman turned suddenly, as if sensing Yuki’s gaze. Their eyes met, and Yuki felt her breath catch in her throat. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then the woman smiled.

“Is this your work?” she asked, her voice warm and curious.

Yuki hesitated, her palms sweating. “Y-yes.”

The woman’s smile widened slightly, and she turned back to the painting. “It’s beautiful. There’s so much... resilience in it. Like it’s standing strong despite everything around it.”

Yuki blinked, her chest tightening. No one had ever described her work like that before.

“I’m Hana,” the woman said, turning back to her and extending a hand.

Yuki stared at it for a second before taking it hesitantly. “Yuki.”

Hana’s grip was firm but gentle, her touch warm. For the first time that evening, Yuki felt a spark of something she couldn’t quite name—something she wasn’t sure she was ready for but didn’t want to let go of either.

Exciting news! My debut novel is finally here. It’s a story of resilience, creativity, and unexpected connections. I hope you’ll enjoy diving into its world as much as I enjoyed bringing it to life. Stay tuned for updates, and thank you for your support as this story begins its journey!

The streets outside were silent by the time Yuki returned to her studio, her thoughts swirling with the evening’s events. She set her empty canvas case down by the door and sank into the worn chair near the window. The city lights blinked faintly in the distance, a quiet pulse in the darkness.

Hana.

The name felt foreign on her tongue, yet it lingered in her mind, refusing to fade. Yuki replayed their brief conversation over and over, dissecting every word, every glance, every subtle smile.

“She liked it,” Yuki whispered to herself, running her fingers over the fraying hem of her sweater. The memory of Hana’s gaze on the painting—the way she saw it - really saw it—was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Sora leaped onto her lap, curling up with a contented purr. Yuki absently stroked his fur, her fingers tangling in the soft gray strands. “What do you think, Sora? Was she just being polite?”

The cat’s only response was a lazy flick of his tail.

Yuki sighed, her gaze drifting to the canvas propped against the wall—the lone tree, defiant and unyielding. Hana’s words echoed in her mind: “There’s so much resilience in it.”

Resilience.

She had never thought of the painting that way. To her, it had always been a symbol of loneliness, a reflection of the isolation she felt but could never put into words. But now, Hana’s interpretation shifted something inside her, like a key turning in a long-locked door.

Yuki stood abruptly, displacing Sora, who leaped to the floor with an indignant meow. She grabbed her sketchpad and charcoal, her hands moving instinctively. Lines emerged on the page—soft, tentative at first, but growing bolder with each stroke.

This time, the tree wasn’t alone.

Branches stretched toward another, their silhouettes intertwining against a backdrop of twilight. The lines weren’t perfect, but they were alive, pulsing with an energy Yuki hadn’t felt in months.

She worked late into the night, and the studio bathed in the golden glow of her desk lamp. When she finally stepped back, her hands smudged with charcoal, and she felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn’t finished, not yet, but it was a beginning.

The next morning, Yuki woke to the sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand. She groaned, squinting at the screen through bleary eyes.

Unknown Number.

She hesitated before answering, her voice hoarse. “Hello?”

“Yuki? It’s Hana.”

Yuki bolted upright, her heart racing. “Hana? How—”

“Ayumi gave me your number,” Hana said, her voice warm and unhurried. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s fine,” Yuki stammered, pushing her hair out of her face.

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab coffee sometime,” Hana continued. “I’d love to hear more about your work—if you’re up for it.”

Coffee. It was a simple invitation, yet it felt monumental. Yuki glanced at the sketchpad on her desk, her pulse quickening.

“Sure,” she said, trying to sound casual. “That sounds nice.”

“Great! How about tomorrow? There’s a little café near the gallery—it’s quiet, not too crowded.”

“Tomorrow works.”

Hana gave her the name of the café and the time before hanging up. Yuki stared at the phone for a long moment, her mind racing.

Sora padded over, meowing insistently. Yuki reached down to scratch his head, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“Looks like I have plans, Sora.”

The next day, Yuki arrived at the café early, her nerves buzzing like static. She clutched her sketchpad to her chest, unsure if bringing it was the right choice. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods enveloped her as she stepped inside.

Hana was already there, seated by a window, a steaming cup in front of her. She looked up and smiled when she saw Yuki waving her over.

“Hi,” Hana said as Yuki approached.

“Hi,” Yuki replied, slipping into the chair across from her.

They exchanged pleasantries, the conversation starting slow but gaining momentum as Hana asked about Yuki’s process, her inspirations, and her struggles.

Yuki found herself opening up in a way she hadn’t expected, her usual hesitance melting under Hana’s attentive gaze.

“I brought this,” Yuki said eventually, sliding her sketchpad across the table.

Hana flipped it open, her expression softening as she studied the unfinished drawing of the two trees.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, her fingers tracing the lines without touching the page. “You’re adding to the story.”

Yuki nodded, swallowing hard. “I think… I want to try something different. Something more hopeful.”

Hana looked up, her eyes bright. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

The conversation continued, drifting from art to the mundane details of their lives. Yuki learned that Hana worked as a freelance editor, spending her days buried in manuscripts and deadlines. Hana, in turn, asked about Yuki’s studio, her routines, and even Sora, whose personality Yuki described with unexpected animation.

As the hours passed, Yuki felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She didn’t have to force herself to speak or explain. With Hana, the words came naturally, like water finding its way through cracks.

When they finally parted ways, Yuki walked back to her studio with a lightness she couldn’t remember feeling before. The winter chill nipped at her cheeks, but the warmth of the café and Hana’s laughter lingered in her mind.

Inside, she set her sketchpad on the desk and stared at the unfinished drawing of the two trees. Picking up her charcoal, she began to add details to the branches, imagining how they might grow together, supporting one another against the wind.

For the first time in a long while, Yuki felt like she wasn’t standing alone in an endless field.