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.
