We head for Watercolor Square next, and Elsha can’t seem to contain her excitement. Snowdrop seems just as excited with the way she hovers above the ground, wings whirring.

“I’ve never been to Watercolor Square before,” she says, a curious spark in her pale eyes.

“You’re missing out,” Elsha says, a grin on her face. “It’s way better than any other square, in my opinion.”

“That’s only because you’re an artist,” I say, ruffling her hair.

We reach the alley and walk through one at a time, Ryuji in the lead and Anton taking up the rear. When we emerge on the other side, it’s like we’ve stepped into another world.

Watercolor Square is alive with every color imaginable, murals painted across the ground, the fountains, the benches, the storefronts, and even on the roofs of the buildings. Snowdrop gasps and pauses at the mouth of the alley, drinking it all in. I stop next to her, amazed as well. I can’t help it. Every time you come, there’s always something different.

There’s a mural right beneath our feet of millions of tiny flowers in a rainbow of colors, each one a different shape and size. I know for a fact that each one was painted by a different artist who’s come through here. Elsha even added a few of her own. Further on is a landscape splashed across the front of a café of a dragon chasing wild-maned pooka on the shore of a beach. Sea monsters and ships ride the waves and moonlight is scattered across the painting like shards of broken glass.

Colors and paintings fill up so much of a person’s vision that you almost miss the artists scattered across the square, hunched over their sketchbooks. Right now, it’s too cold to paint, but a young woman with a dragon muse is already setting up her easel next to one of the abstract fountains.

Elsha skips through the square like she’s finally come home, right for the art supply store. I let her go and instead wander over to a familiar artist who I’ve seen here before. He’s sitting on the ground, a massive sketchbook in his lap, sketching with charcoal. When I peek over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of his sketch. It’s the young woman setting up her easel. She’s wrapped in shadows and looking rather mysterious. Awe, and a tiny bit of jealousy fill me at the sight. He’s amazing. And his muse…it’s a shadowy creature, like a piece of the night drifting around him, wrapping him up like a cape and no doubt blocking out the world. They’re both mysterious and cool and amazing, and I have no doubt this guy will go places in the artist world.

Snowdrop has lost herself somewhere among a crowd of artists, chatting with them and most likely exchanging ideas. Anton has become the easel-girl’s subject, posing on one of the benches like he’s on the cover of a fashion magazine, an amiable smile on his lips. Can’t really blame easel-girl. Anton’s plethora of tattoos and piercings and otherworldly eyes make him a fascinating subject.

I search for Ryuji, and find him on the rooftops, hopping from one to another, looking down on everyone like a silent guardian. I spy two more icarus on the rooftops, each lost in their own artwork. Turning back to the artist in front of me, I watch him sketch a little longer before wandering over to one of the benches to see if anything new has been added. Sometimes I can pick out a vague storyline in some of the little paintings that people contribute.

For the next hour or so, we drift through the square, in and out of buildings, and hovering near artists, soaking in this new art form. I find myself drifting into the museum, where new pieces have been added to the walls. Pulling out my notebook, I write down a few notes; just small things, like adjectives and nouns, or little snippets of what kind of story the painting or sketch could be telling.

Giant sculptures fill the wide spaces of the open floors. A few skeletons are mixed in, no doubt made entirely of magic as replicas of the real things. They are arranged in a way that’s different than what they should be, like a pair of human skeletons forming a flower with the skulls as the center. I take them in, soaking in the details. Mom would be utterly appalled by this art but I find it fascinating.

It almost looks like they’re holding each other’s heads. The skulls are pressed together, and I can just imagine what kind of story the artist wanted to convey. How love can cause two people to become as if they are one. A single organism bound by an unfathomable bond. It’s a beautiful concept. And it gives me an idea.

Elsha finds me after a while and drags me back outside where the air has warmed a little and easel-girl has started on her painting.

“I want to paint something before we leave,” Elsha says. She drags me over to a bench that still has a little bit of unpainted wood left and kneels before it. Pulling out supplies from her bag, she sets to work, painting a snow-white wolf howling up at a moon someone else had painted. I kneel next to her and watch, letting her use my empty cup from the café to rinse her brushes in. Every brush stroke is meticulous and beautiful, the fur-detailing on the wolf exquisite.

Everyone is so talented, it’s unfair. I shake away the selfish thought. All these people here, they’ve gained their talent through dedicating themselves to what they love. They weren’t born with pencils and brushes and pastels in hand. They worked hard to reach their levels. And what did I do? I shoved my writing away and hid from the overwhelming urge to create. I shunned it. In the end, I blocked out its call and now I can’t remember what it sounds like.

“That’s pretty,” a baritone voice says behind me.

I look up to see Anton leaning over Elsha’s shoulder, sunglasses resting on the tip of his nose. He watches with fascination as she puts on the finishing touches.

“Thanks.” Elsha rinses her brush and dries it on a napkin I happened to shove in my pocket before we left the café.

“Can I try something?” Anton holds out his hand for the brush. 

Shrugging, Elsha hands it to him and backs away. Anton crouches down and quickly adds red to the wolf’s eyes. He then paints large, sweeping wings on the wolf’s back, changing it from an ordinary creature to something from fantasy. He smiles and nods.

“There. That’s better.”

“Wow!” Elsha studies his detailed paint job, eyes sparkling. “That’s so cool! You’re really good.”

Anton grins, flashing fangs. “I designed all my own tattoos.”

I raise my brows at that. They’re so intricate that I can’t fathom how someone would come up with the design, much less apply it to the skin. “Really? I didn’t expect that.”

Anton’s smile widens. “No one ever does.”

“Keelin!” Ryuji’s voice drifts down to us from the rooftops. Looking up, I catch him waving down at us. “Come up here and look!”

“How!” I yell back. “I can’t fly, remember?”

Ryuji floats from the roof of the museum down to the roof of a small shop dedicated to canvases. He points at the side of the building.

“There’s a ladder over here. Hurry up!”

Groaning, I get to my feet, my knees protesting. The cold has already worked its way into my joints, making me feel twenty years older than I am. I trot across the square and into the shaded alley beside the canvas shop. Sure enough, a ladder leads up the side of the building to the sloped roof above. Ryuji stands at the top, a winged silhouette against the iron-grey sky.

I grip the cold metal rungs and wish I had thought to put on gloves. The cold bites into my fingers, and my joints seize, making it difficult to climb.

“It’s too cold for this,” I gripe, shoving my feet up one rung and then another. “You better be glad I like you Ryuji Haruta because otherwise I would have gone home by now.”

Ryuji holds a gloved hand, brows raised. “You like me?”

I roll my eyes as I place my hand in his. “You know what I mean.”

A mischievous grin crosses his face. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”

“I will pull you off this roof, mister.”

Ryuji laughs and helps me up onto the rooftop. Thankfully, it’s not metal, so it’s not as cold as it could be. I climb to my feet, my legs unsteady. Heights and I have never mixed well.

“There’s something cool you need to see,” Ryuji says. He grabs me by the shoulders and, without a single thought toward how I’m shaking, steers me toward the edge of the roof. I stumble, my boots catching on the tiles.

“Wh-wait, Ryuji—” Then I see it.

All complaints escape my mind as I stare down at the painted cobblestones of Watercolor Square. The sun shines evening rays shine across the ground at just the right angle to bring the myriad of colors to life. From up here, everything has changed. Instead of thousands of separate paintings, I see one giant masterpiece, forming dragons and pegasus intertwining with birds as they dance through an evening sky of reds and oranges, clouds stirred by their wings. The trees that dot the courtyard are strategically placed so that the autumn leaves blend with the painting as a fiery edition to the sky and clouds. A gasp escapes my lips.

“Holy heavens, it’s beautiful!” I say, staring at it all. “How did they even manage that?”

“It’s magic. See?” He points at one dragon in particular. I squint, and then I see it. The animals, the clouds, even the sunbeams, they’re all moving, as if the creatures are drifting through the sky. It’s the most beautiful magic I’ve ever seen.

We stand there, staring down at the mural, the wind wrapping us in its cold embrace. I sneak a glance at Ryuji. He’s not looking at the painted cobblestones below. Instead, he’s looking at me, his gaze thoughtful.

“What?” I say, leaning back a centimeter. It’s a good thing my cheeks are already flushed from the cold, or I’d be really embarrassed at this moment.

“Are your hands cold?” He asks, dropping his gaze to his own hands.

“Not reall—”

“Here.” He pulls his gloves off and shoves them at me, looking everywhere but at my face. “You don’t want to get early arthritis in your fingers if you want to keep writing.”

I shove them back. “Then keep them. I’m not living long enough for that to happen, anyway.”

Grabbing my wrist, he slaps the gloves into my palm. The wind rustles his black and white feathers, and for a moment, I can’t look away from his deep brown eyes. There’s something in his gaze that I can’t read, something I’m not sure if I’m ready to see. He’s standing so close now, blocking the wind, leaving me in my own tiny cocoon of warmth.

A grin splits his face as he takes a step back. And promptly trips, falling backwards onto the roof tiles. I laugh as he sits up.

“I meant to do that,” he says with confidence.

“Right, right.” I squint my eyes at him while trying to suppress a smile. “Whatever you say.”

He remains where he is, looking out over the city. I lower myself onto the roof next to him. Here, we can see the tall buildings of businesses, and in the obscured distance, the scaffolding that supports the Eyries. A nearby park on our left gives us a buffer between the square and the rest of the city. It’s strangely quiet, and I find myself relaxing despite the cold.

“Well? Feeling inspired?”

“Yes,” I say, grudgingly. “I’ve actually come up with a story idea.”

“Oh, really?”

 “Yeah.” I watch Elsha letting run across the square toward Minnie, who’s adding something to the mural on the ground.

“Want to tell me about it? I’m really curious.”

I look up at Ryuji. He’s watching the concert, a slight smile on his lips. The sun has turned his irises from brown to a burnished gold, and the wind ruffles his hair across his forehead. With the brilliant orange sky behind him, he almost looks like a painting himself.

“Yeah,” I say finally, looking away, my throat tight. “There’s this world where everyone has what’s called a soulkeeper. It’s a creature that floats outside your body and protects your soul. Kinda like how muses protect your creative heart. But the downside is that if someone catches your soulkeeper and crushes it, your soul will die.”

“Oof, that’s dark.” Ryuji side-eyes me. “Where are we going with this?”

I keep my eyes on the mural below and watch the pegasi wings flap slowly. “There’s one person who was born without a soulkeeper, and everyone around her says she’s cursed and that she doesn’t have a soul. But in the end, it turns out that her soulkeeper’s been living inside her body all this time. Keeping her safe in the only way it knew how.”

I can still see it, the image of my little turquoise, horse-shaped muse. Prancing through the air, tossing its little mane, keeping me company on the lonely days, feeding me thoughts and stories. I miss my muse so much my chest aches, that hollow place inside me screaming. Yearning for that connection that I’m not sure I’ll ever have again. I scratch at my arm, my curse mark burning. Maybe, if I gave it a few years, she’d come back to me. But I don’t have years. At this rate, I’ll never see her again.

“It’s a beautiful idea.” Ryuji’s gentle voice startles me from my thoughts. “You should totally write it.”

I shrug, burrowing deeper into my hoodie. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s good enough to win a contest.”

“You won’t know unless you try.” He bumps my shoulder with his and gives me a half smile. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself. If you don’t believe you can do it, you never will.”

He says the last part with a serious face. There’s something behind his words, as if he’s experienced just what I’m feeling before. That thought gives me a little comfort. I’m not the only one who’s struggled with feeling not good enough. He has too.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Elsha calls from below. “We staying here forever or what?”

Ryuji opens his wings and jumps down. He glides to the ground, coming to a running stop.

“Who are you calling love birds!” I shout back, suddenly irritated. “I swear, Elsha, if you say that one more time…!”

I put Ryuji’s gloves on before climbing down. They’re still warm from when he wore them. My cheeks are burning hot now. We’re just friends, I remind myself. Get it together, Keelin. It’s completely normal for guy friends to be gentlemanly. Ryuji probably would have lent the gloves to Snowdrop or Elsha if he knew they were getting cold as well. Lucky for both of them, they’re more dressed for the weather than I am.

When I reach the ground, the group has drifted back to the center of the square. Snowdrop has cherries painted on her cheek and a tiny pastel drawing of a dog. Elsha and Anton are now talking art, and Ryuji’s hair is an absolute mess.

They laugh together, happiness radiating from them like a warm summer morning. I smile. If this had been any other day, I would have held back, afraid to join in. But they’ve all welcomed me with open arms. Walking with confident steps, I move to join them.