The days began to blur into one another, yet each carried its own unique weight. Maya had become a familiar face at the center—someone the children smiled at, someone the broken leaned on. Her presence wasn't loud, but it was felt.
One afternoon, she found a folded sketch tucked under her workstation. A simple charcoal drawing—a woman standing at the edge of a cliff, her arms spread like wings, her face tilted toward the sky.
Underneath, a note: "You remind me of her. Still. Strong. Free. —J."
Maya stared at the signature, her breath catching. J.
She looked around the center, searching for him. The man from the museum. The one who watched from afar. He had left no trace but the art.
Faith walked up behind her. "You've inspired someone," she said, eyes glinting with warmth.
"But I don't even know who he is," Maya whispered.
"Maybe you don't have to—not yet," Faith replied. "Some stories take time to unravel."
Maya folded the sketch and placed it gently into her bag. It wasn't just a drawing—it was a promise that someone saw her, truly saw her, even the parts she hadn't shown anyone.
That evening, Maya sat by the window, watching the sky stretch wide in lavender hues. And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was surviving—she felt like she was living.
She picked up her notebook and wrote:
"I am still here. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to begin again."
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