“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey sweetie, how are you feeling?” Mom asks, just as she always does.

“Great.”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Like a baby.”

“Have you been cooking for yourself?”

“Sometimes.” I’m actually chopping up some vegetables for stir fry right now in my kitchen that finally looks like a kitchen. Mom and Tabby helped paint when they were here. I made sure to find colors that kept it feeling open; soft yellows, cool greens and pale blues. With the house sitting in the middle of the woods surrounded by towering trees, it could make the place a bit dark even with all the windows. Afterwards, they flew back to New York while I had a few minor details to work with. I always lived on my own in a smaller apartment so I had to buy some accessories for the house as a whole. I don’t think I did too bad, although I admit my skills lie with painting, not so much decorating.

“Have you set up your appointment with the local therapist?” Mom asks.

“Yes, I actually just got back. You know, you’ve been calling multiple times everyday and nothing has changed. Seriously, I’m great, Mom. I love it here,” I say after finishing up the vegetables. I carry them over to the frying pan and slip them in.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just...I want to check in.”

“It is appreciated, but once a day would be more acceptable.”

“I feel like you’re implying that I’m overbearing.”

I laugh. “Everyone has their moments.”

“Edwin,” Mom groans. I can envision her rolling her eyes. “It’s not just you living in the house that worries me. It was hard enough getting you out of the apartment. You’re not overworking yourself, are you? I don’t want you passing out from stress anymore so we agreed you’d take time off. You need it, and relaxation does not mean just sitting at home either.”

“You are so hard to please,” I whine while mixing my stir fry together onto a plate. “I’m still painting everyday if that’s what you’re asking—”

“Edwin.”

“But it’s not for work. It’s purely for fun, I swear.” Although once William sees my work he’ll be insisting I put them up in a gallery. I can’t blame him either because, even on a canvas, the scenery is gorgeous.

My first series of paintings that sparked my career were of the memories and imagination I had of Whisper Woods, fairies hiding in the bookshelves, rivers forming into castles, trees coming to life as man and beasts, and mermaids in the lake. Remembering tales Pap and Nana read to me then twisting it in with what I remembered of Whisper Woods launched my career and allowed me a sense of relief concerning my unknown past.

Mom never talked about how she felt, seeing me paint such beautiful things from a place that brought her such pain. But I think she understood I needed it. As time went on though, those memories weren’t the same, even if I always dreamed about them. I don’t know if I wasn’t inspired or it was my mind's way of saying I needed to come back.

Now it’s all flowing out like a broken faucet. The water won’t stop flowing so I can’t stop painting and I really don’t know where the imagery is coming from because it feels so real, although it shouldn’t be. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s there, clawing to get out so I’m allowing those dreams to breathe.

“Anyways, I just finished dinner so how about I call you in the morning, ok?” I ask even if by the sound of Mom’s hum she thinks I’m lying. I’m already shoving a spoonful of my creation into my mouth.

“Ok, if you need anything—”

“Call, I know,” I interrupt her with a chuckle. “Love you, tell Malcolm and shithead I love them too.”

“Don’t call your sister that,” Mom sighs but I can hear her smiling. “I will though, love you too. Get your rest.”

“I will, bye Mom.” With that, we hang up, allowing me to step into the living room where my recently finished painting resides.

The canvas is leaning against one of the wide walls. I stare at it from across the room, admiring the view that is a replica of the forest across from the living room window, but from fifteen years ago. Pap’s old white boat with a single, thin red stripe is floating by the dock as it should be. The shed is upright with wind chimes and bird feeders hanging from the edges. The forest rests, quiet and calm behind the lake, stars illuminating their tall silhouette’s. The full moon is reflected off the dark water, a serene landscape except for one tiny detail that is huge in my mind.

A figure, just one, standing at the edge of the lake across the way; like the light of a small, dim star that was plucked from the sky and placed on the treeline, soft and eye-catching yet unclear. I dream about it sometimes, an almost ghostly apparition beckoning me over with a soft song that I don’t understand.

My therapist once told me it was my mind’s way of keeping my grandparents alive. I keep seeing them in my dreams, but my gut says no. The figure certainly isn’t either of my grandparents yet the uncertainty of its origin doesn’t frighten me.

“You fit right in either way, don’t you?” I ask like I expect the painting to reply. Even if I don’t know why the figure is there, or what it’s meant to be, it seems to work so well, like it’s meant to be there.

Imagination is truly a powerful thing.