4.Ansel and Lorraine first meet
The gallery was small, tucked between a wine bar and an antique bookshop on a quiet cobblestone street. It was raining that evening, a soft drizzle misting the windows, turning the city into a blur of light and motion. Ansel Merrick hadn’t planned to stop. He hated these impromptu showcases—usually full of overpriced, soulless pieces paraded by wide-eyed hopefuls and pretentious collectors. But the rain had cornered him, and the flicker of melancholy golden through the glass had caught his eye
Inside, the room was nearly empty. No wine trays, no loud laughter. Just walls lined with raw, emotional sketches—ink bleeding into watercolor, faces twisted in agony, joy, hope. Stories without words. He paused in front of one that stopped his breath entirely
A young girl with a cracked porcelain mask smiled on the outside, but her reflection in a nearby puddle showed hollow eyes and clenched fists. It was haunting, brutal, and honest in a way most professional works dared not be
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
Who did this?** he asked the clerk sharply**
The man blinked. “Uh, local artist. She doesn’t give her real name. Signs as Rae Win. Young, I think. She dropped off the pieces last week and vanished
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
Call her **Ansel said flatly**Now
Two days later, Lorraine showed up at his office, nervous and clutching a worn portfolio. She looked more like a student than an artist—messy hair, oversized sweater, and wary eyes.
The hallway leading to Ansel Merrick’s office smelled faintly of turpentine and dust—aged, like the man himself. Her fingers clutched her portfolio so tightly her knuckles ached, but she couldn’t let go. It held the only parts of herself she wasn’t ashamed of.
She hadn’t expected the call. Hadn’t expected anyone to see her work hanging quietly in that little gallery, let alone him. Ansel Merrick—the infamous restoration genius with a reputation for eviscerating mediocrity and mentoring only the madly talented or completely unhinged
She was neither. Just... invisible. Quiet. Scared
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
You're the one?** he asked, flipping through her work**
But the moment he looked at her sketches, something changed
He didn’t compliment. Didn’t patronize. He saw. Saw the pain in her strokes, the meaning behind every jagged smile and hollow eye. He peeled back her layers without asking permission, and for once, it didn’t feel like an intrusion
Lorraine
I—yes **she said hesitantly**I didn’t think anyone would notice
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
Most wouldn't**He muttered**But I did
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
**He said**your work screams. It’s terrifying and brilliant. Ever thought of telling stories with it?
Lorraine
I already do**she murmured**
Yes, she did. She just didn’t think anyone would ever listen.
He studied her for a long moment, then leaned back
Ansel Merrick/Fl Mentor
I can’t promise you fame, fortune, or comfort. But I can help you create. If you’ll let me
That moment—the simple nod, the way he said create instead of succeed—burrowed into her. It became her anchor on nights when she doubted herself, when the silence of her house grew too loud and the world felt too heavy.
Lorraine
**Her Hands tightened around her portfolio, but her eyes shone. She nodded**
Ansel Merrick didn’t rescue her.
He reminded her she never needed rescuing.
That day, Ansel Merrick didn’t just find an artist.
He found a storm in disguise—and knew the world wouldn’t be ready when she finally let herself be seen
She left his office that day walking a little taller, clutching her portfolio like it was a sword instead of a shield. And for the first time, Lorraine Winifred believed that her art didn’t have to be hidden.
Lorraine Winifred/Fl
**Smile contentedly**
Lorraine Winifred/Fl
its worth it by giving second chance to myself
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