The afternoon sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting patches of warm light and shadow along the stone-paved paths of Willowglen Park. A soft breeze rustles the leaves overhead, and somewhere nearby, the sound of children laughing echoes like distant bells. I walk slowly, worn sketchbook tucked under my arm, mechanical pencil resting in my pocket. I don't have a plan for what I want to draw. I just want to sit and let the quiet pull something out of me.
I find a bench near the lake, half-shaded by a willow tree. The spot is familiar. I've been here before—on quiet days, on loud ones, on days I didn't know who I was becoming. Maybe I still don't. I take a seat, let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and open my sketchbook to a blank page. No references, no commissions, no pressure. Just a pencil and a few clean sheets.
