December 7, 2023 was a Thursday, and St Ives had started to look like it was slowly giving in to winter. The air smelled like salt from the sea, cold enough to sting the inside of your nose. The streets were damp from earlier drizzle, and the stones along the lanes held a thin shine, like someone had polished them by accident.

Sorianne walked with her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, shoulders a little hunched from the wind. Her school uniform was still neat under it, blazer buttoned, tie in place, and her skirt brushing her knees as she stepped over a shallow puddle. Her hair, dyed a soft pink that looked brighter in summer, sat quietly under her hood and peeked out at the sides in loose strands.

She went to St Ives School, up by Higher Tregenna, the kind of school where everyone knew everyone, or at least knew someone who knew you.

Next to her was Matilda Warentt, walking like the cold had personally offended her and she planned to win the argument. Matilda’s blonde hair fell to her shoulders in a messy, airy way that made it look like she never tried, even if she clearly did. She wore her uniform wrong on purpose. Tie slightly loose, blazer open, and her shoes scuffed like proof she had better things to do than look perfect.

Matilda leaned in toward Sorianne as they turned down the familiar street, boots tapping the stones.

“You’re walking slow,” Matilda said. “Are you being thoughtful or just freezing?”

Sorianne merely smiled, small and soft.

“That’s such a Sorianne answer.” Matilda answered her own question as she offers a smile of her own.

Sorianne’s laugh came out like a quiet puff of air. She glanced down the street ahead, where warm lights glowed through shop windows. Even in winter, St Ives felt like it was holding its breath in a friendly way. People waved. Someone’s dog barked once, then stopped. A couple coming out of a bakery nodded at them like they’d known them forever.

They reached their favourite ice cream shop, the one tucked between two little stores, with a sign that always looked a bit crooked. It should have felt strange to buy ice cream in December, but it never did.

Matilda pushed the door open like she owned the place. Warm air rolled out and hit Sorianne’s cheeks. The smell inside was sweet and comforting, mixed with waffle cones and something caramel-like.

A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. “Afternoon, girls.”

“Afternoon,” Matilda said, then pointed at Sorianne like she was presenting evidence. “It’s her birthday tomorrow. She’s turning sixteen. She’s old now.”

Sorianne’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not old.”

“You’re ancient.”

The woman laughed. “Happy early birthday, love.”

“Thank you,” Sorianne said, voice gentle.

Matilda ordered with confidence, as if her tongue had been trained for battle.

“One mint chocolate chip,” she said, then leaned closer to the glass display and squinted like it might argue with her. “And one normal flavour for me.”

Sorianne lifted her head. “That is my normal flavour.”

Matilda looked horrified, the way she always did, even though she never truly meant it. “It tastes like toothpaste. Like you woke up and thought, ‘I want dessert that judges me.’”

“It’s refreshing,” Sorianne said, and her smile widened.

“Refreshing,” Matilda repeated, mocking gently. “You know what else is refreshing? Water. I don’t buy water as a treat.”

Sorianne held her laughter in, shoulders bouncing. The woman behind the counter slid the cups toward them, and Matilda paid before Sorianne could even reach for her pocket.

Matilda pushed Sorianne’s cup into her hands. “Early birthday gift. You can’t argue.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s because you’re polite. It’s your curse.”

They left the shop with cold ice cream and warm hands, sitting side by side on a low wall outside where they could watch people pass. The wind found them again, but it wasn’t too bad. The ice cream made Sorianne’s teeth ache in the best way.

Matilda dug into her own cup, then paused as if remembering something. “So. Holiday plans.”

Sorianne tilted her head. “You’re starting already?”

“Schools out tomorrow right?,” Matilda said, pointing her spoon like it was a serious matter. “Principle Deidre mentioned a school construction thing that’s gonna last up until New Year. We are free and I plan to waste that freedom.”

Sorianne hummed. “What are you doing?”

Matilda’s face softened, just a little. That was one of her things. Loud first, honest second.

“My mom’s got the flower orders,” she said. “Christmas rush. I’ll help her. Lift boxes. Make the bouquets look fancy. Pretend I’m not freezing to death in the stall.”

Sorianne’s eyes brightened. “Your belladonna is always fresh.”

Matilda gave her a sideways look. “You say that like it’s a compliment. It’s literally poisonous.”

“It’s still beautiful,” Sorianne said simply.

Matilda stared at her for a second, then looked away with a small smile, like she didn’t want to admit she liked that answer.

“And you?” Matilda asked. “What are you doing besides being quietly poetic at me?”

Sorianne took another spoonful of mint chocolate chip and let the cold settle on her tongue. “Painting,” she said. “Reading. Writing. Eating.”

“Eating is a hobby now?”

“It can be,” Sorianne said, then added, “Aunt Vee’s chicken stew.”

Matilda groaned. “That stew has a hold on you. One day you’re going to move out and cry because your future kitchen can’t make it.”

Sorianne smiled, but her eyes went slightly distant, the way they sometimes did when she thought of home. The house on the outskirts, the garden out back, the places that still carried her mother’s shape in small ways. A hook on the wall. A chair by the window. A corner where paint stains never fully disappeared. All of it lived in her head like a quiet room.

Matilda watched her, then nudged her knee with her own. Not hard, just enough to pull her back.

“So,” Matilda said, casual on the outside, careful underneath. “Why do you paint all the time if you won’t show anyone?”

Sorianne’s fingers tightened around her cup for a moment. The paper crinkled softly.

“Hey! I show you, didn’t I?,” she said.

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m special,” Matilda said quickly. “I meant showing your art to OTHER people. Like, people who actually know art.”

Sorianne looked down at her ice cream. The chocolate pieces were dark against the pale green.

“It’s personal,” she said.

Matilda sighed, then tried again, gentler. “Is it because of your mom?”

Sorianne didn’t flinch. Matilda had known the story for years. Everyone in their circle did. Thea, her mother, dying when Sorianne was ten. The natural causes, the hospital visits, the way adults spoke softly around her like she might break. Aunt Vee stepping in, Uncle Trunde staying steady, and Sorianne learning how to exist in a world where the person who anchored her was suddenly missing.

Sorianne nodded once. “She loved painting,” she said. “It was her thing.”

Matilda scooped up a bite of her own ice cream, then hesitated, as if she was choosing her words like stepping on ice.

“You should show Mr Veloutte,” she said. “Seriously.”

Sorianne looked up at that name.

Mr Veloutte was their art teacher, and he had that kind of presence that made students sit up straighter without thinking. Young, only twenty-seven, from Lyon in France, with brown hair and a calm face that somehow made half the school act strange. He dressed well, too. Shirts that fit properly, sleeves rolled up when he worked, paint smudges that made him look real instead of polished.

Matilda rolled her eyes dramatically. “Before you say it, yes, I know. Everyone swoons. Boys. Girls. The wall. The chairs. Probably the paintbrushes too.”

Sorianne laughed, and it was a fuller sound this time. “You’re just jealous, Til.”

“Duh,” Matilda emphasised. “He likes talent. You have talent. Put those together.”

Sorianne shook her head, still smiling, but quieter again. “I’m still practising.”

“You have been practising for ages,” Matilda said. “At this point, you’re not practising. You’re just hiding.”

Sorianne’s smile stayed, but it thinned at the edges. She stared at the street, at the sea-wind tugging at a hanging sign. She knew Matilda meant well. Matilda always did. She just came at care with loud hands.

“Your mom would be proud,” Matilda said, softer now, almost awkward. Like she hated sounding serious but did it anyway. “She would.”

Sorianne didn’t answer right away.

Her throat tightened in that familiar way, not painful, merely heavy. The kind of weight that came when someone said something kind and it landed on a place inside you that was still tender. She didn’t mind the comment. It didn’t make her angry. It didn’t even make her sad in a clean way. It made her feel confused, the way she had felt for years.

She knew her mother was gone. She knew Thea was no longer in this world.

But something in her still kept reaching. Quietly. Stubbornly. Like a hand in the dark looking for a shape it remembered. Sorianne’s lips parted, then closed again. She ended up humming instead, a small sound that meant, I heard you, and I don’t know what to do with it. Matilda leaned closer. Her shoulder bumped Sorianne’s shoulder.

“You’re fine as you are,” Matilda said, rough around the edges, but honest. “You don’t have to be some brave artist prodigy. You can just be… you.”

Sorianne blinked hard once, then looked at her friend.

“Thanks,” she said.

Matilda made a face as if she hated emotional moments. “Don’t get sappy. It’s gross.”

Sorianne’s laugh came back again, and this time it didn’t shake.

They finished their ice cream slowly, letting the cold bite fade into numbness, letting the evening settle. When they stood, Sorianne brushed a bit of hair out of her face and pulled her coat tighter. Matilda walked her to the corner where their paths split. The streetlight above them flickered once, then held steady.

“Tomorrow,” Matilda said, pointing at Sorianne again, “you are officially sixteen. Don’t do anything tragic or dramatic.”

Sorianne smiled. “I won’t.”

Matilda narrowed her eyes. “And if you do, I’ll beat up the tragedy.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“I’m your best friend, so I CAN beat up tradegy,” Matilda said, deadly serious yet humorous look for a second, then grinned. “See you tomorrow, birthday girl.”

Sorianne watched her go, blond hair bouncing, hands stuffed in her pockets, disappearing down the lane like she belonged to the whole town.

Then Sorianne turned toward home.

The wind followed her, cold and salty. And somewhere under the quiet of the streets, under the comfort of familiar places and familiar faces, that small stubborn hope stayed alive in her chest, the same way it always did.