Sorianne painted for nearly two hours without really noticing time move.

At first she worked carefully, matching what her phone had captured. The angle of the coastline. The quiet stretch of sea. The shape of the clouds, soft and thin where the light touched them. As the minutes passed, her hand grew steadier. She stopped checking the reference every few seconds and started trusting her own eyes.

The art began to look alive.

The colours lined up the way she wanted. The light held. The water had that calm, layered look that made it feel deep instead of flat. She even added small touches that were not in the photo at all, tiny shifts that came from feeling rather than memory. A warmer glow at the edge of the horizon. A slightly softer shadow under a cloud. Things she could not fully explain, but she knew they belonged.

When she finally leaned back, her neck ached slightly and her fingers were stiff from gripping the brush. She studied her work, lips parted, eyes bright with the quiet satisfaction that only comes after real focus. It was not finished. The foreground still needed attention and the sky needed a few more careful blends. But it was progress. Real progress.

Sorianne cleaned her brushes, wiped her hands, and left the sunroom with a calmer energy. The excitement was still there, but it had settled into something warm in her chest, like a small lamp.

Her room welcomed her in its usual way.

It was not chaotic like some teenagers’ rooms. It wasn’t bare either. Shows and posters weren’t the main story here. Her room looked like someone who lived gently within her confused, young life.

The walls carried soft colours, light blue and pale pink with touches of beige. Pastel curtains hung by the window and moved slightly whenever the wind pressed against the glass. Her bed sat right up against the window in a way that felt special, like a choice made on purpose. From there, she could see the coastline. Even at night, there was always something calming about that view, the dark sea stretching out like it had secrets but no urgency.

Around the room were canvases, easels, and stacks of paper. Some paintings were finished and framed neatly. Some were half-done and leaned against the wall like they were resting. The older ones looked simpler, with more careful outlines and less confidence in the strokes. The newer ones had more boldness. The difference was obvious, and it told the story of her growing without her having to say a word.

On one shelf, there were smaller pieces. A few of them were the ones she had made with her mother when she was still alive. The colours were brighter in those, and the brushstrokes had a playful feel, like someone had been laughing while painting.

Her gaze lingered there for a second longer than usual.

On her bed sat a doll, stitched by hand and slightly lopsided in a way that made it perfect. Half mushroom, half unicorn, soft fabric with little embroidered details. It had been her mother’s idea, a strange little creature made from scraps and imagination. Sorianne had named it Oonie when she was small and never stopped.

She picked it up briefly, thumb brushing over the stitching, then set it back with care.

Across the room, her small computer sat on a tidy desk. Uncle Trunde had set it up for her when schoolwork started getting harder, and he had done it with the seriousness of a man building something important. The screen was off now, reflecting the room faintly.

A bean couch sat in one corner, slightly squished from use. A low coffee table held a few things she moved around often, a sketchbook, a pencil case, a mug she sometimes forgot to bring downstairs. Her wardrobe was simple and decent, nothing fancy, but everything was clean and folded.

Near the desk were her paintbrushes, arranged by size and type. There were also little knick knacks that had collected over time. A postcard. A small seashell. A keychain Matilda had insisted made her look cool.

And then there were her photos.

Old ones, a few printed and kept in a small box. One frame on the shelf held a pendant, and inside the pendant was a tiny picture of baby Sorianne in her mother’s arms. Thea’s face was young in the photo, smiling softly as if she had all the time in the world.

Sorianne’s fingers brushed the pendant without opening it. She did not need to. She knew that photo by heart.

She let out a quiet breath and turned away before the ache could grow.

Her body reminded her she had been in school all day and painting all evening. The tiredness finally caught up, heavy and honest. She gathered her toiletries and headed to the bathroom.

The shower warmed her skin and cleared the scent of paint from her hands. She washed her hair properly, rubbing shampoo into her scalp until her fingers felt clean again. She stood under the water longer than she needed, letting the steam settle her thoughts. About twenty minutes later she stepped out, towel around her shoulders, cheeks slightly pink from the heat. She changed into her night lounge clothes, soft and comfortable, and tied her hair back loosely so it wouldn’t cling to her neck.

Then she went downstairs, drawn by hunger and habit.

The kitchen was bright. Aunt Vee was there, exactly where Sorianne expected her to be, moving between the table and the counter with papers and lists spread out like she was planning a small event for the whole town. A pen was tucked into her hand, and she looked up the moment Sorianne entered, eyes sharp in the way they always were when she was concentrating.

“Look who finally left the paint cave,” Aunt Vee said. “Artist prodigy.”

Sorianne smiled, quiet and pleased. “I’m hungry.”

“That’s good,” Aunt Vee replied. “Being hungry means you’re still alive, and I am not feeding a ghost in my house.”

Sorianne gave a small laugh and headed straight for the fridge.

Aunt Vee kept talking as Sorianne searched, her voice casual but full of proud energy.

“I’ve got the flower order in,” Aunt Vee said. “Belladonna. From Last Light Garden.”

Sorianne’s eyes flicked up. “Matilda’s mum?”

“Yes,” Aunt Vee said. “And the cake is sorted. Ms Sirene is baking it. She said she’ll drop it off tomorrow morning and she swore she would not let me ruin anything with my opinions.”

Sorianne opened the fridge and spotted what she wanted. A container of leftover chicken stew from yesterday.

Her eyes lit up. “Hey, we got some leftover! My favourite.”

Aunt Vee’s mouth curved, pleased at the reaction. “I know you well, Sori. Now go heat it properly.”

Sorianne pulled it out like it was treasure and moved quickly to the stove. The kitchen here was familiar in a way that made her chest feel warm. The same quaint stove. The same little spice jars. The same scratches on the wooden counter that never quite went away. She poured the stew into a pot and turned on the heat, stirring with a spoon while the smell rose up, rich and comforting.

Aunt Vee continued her planning, ticking things off.

“Ingredients are done too,” she said. “Assorted fruits, pasta, lasagna, some little snack things. We’re not starving anyone in this house tomorrow.”

Sorianne stirred again, watching steam curl upward.

Aunt Vee leaned back in her chair and studied her niece for a moment, expression softening.

“So,” Aunt Vee said, voice calmer. “Anything else you want for your birthday?”

Sorianne turned toward her, the spoon still in her hand. Her face was relaxed, eyes gentle.

“I have everything I need,” she said. “Love. A home. A future.”

Aunt Vee stared at her like she was both proud and annoyed at the same time. She let out a long sigh.

“You’re humble for your own good,” Aunt Vee muttered.

Sorianne smiled, already expecting what came next.

Aunt Vee pointed her pen at her. “Gratitude is good. But you know you’re allowed to want things, right? You can be selfish sometimes. It won’t kill you.”

Sorianne lowered her gaze, stirring the stew slowly. She did know her aunt. If she said nothing, Aunt Vee would keep asking until Sorianne finally gave an answer.

So Sorianne gave her one.

“I want a canvas,” she said. “A bigger one. Bigger than my easel.”

Aunt Vee’s eyes widened slightly, then brightened.

“A proper one?” Aunt Vee asked.

Sorianne nodded. “Not right now. Not urgent. But it would be nice.”

Aunt Vee’s smile came quickly. “Done.”

Sorianne laughed softly, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Good,” Aunt Vee said. “Finally. A normal request.”

Sorianne turned back to the stove and scooped the stew into a bowl when it was hot enough. She carried it to the table and sat down, taking her first bite.

The taste made her shoulders relax.

Aunt Vee watched her eat with satisfaction, then went back to her list, still talking as if the planning itself was a conversation. They chatted about tomorrow’s schedule and who would come. Aunt Vee teased her about turning sixteen like it was a dangerous milestone. Sorianne teased her back about the cooking shows. They talked about school too, about Mr Veloutte and his assignments, about the construction break and how Matilda would probably get bored after a week and start picking fights with snowflakes.

Sorianne ate steadily, listening, smiling, letting the warmth of the stew fill her. Life felt simple as the teen thought it be; and upstairs, in the quiet sunroom, her unfinished painting waited, holding the last light of the sea like it was still alive.