Episode 11: A Light on the Wall
The flyer hung on the fridge like a dare.
Coastal Visions: A Local Art Showcase — Two Weeks Away.
Clara stared at it every morning. She hadn't said anything yet, but I saw the way her fingers hesitated when she picked up her pencil. The way her sketches grew more detailed, more intimate. There was something stirring in her again—something I hadn't seen in years.
Hope.
And fear.
I knew both intimately.
That same fear had kept me from opening my laptop for days. My story sat in a folder called Not Ready. I'd written over 30,000 words. Words that held our pain. Our silence. Our survival. And I was terrified to let them go.
"You're thinking too loud again," Clara said from the couch.
I looked up. She had her sketchpad in her lap and a knowing smirk on her face.
"You're one to talk," I replied. "That flyer's practically whispering your name."
She raised an eyebrow. "And your laptop's begging for attention."
We both laughed.
It was easier now—teasing, talking, existing together without walking on glass.
"I'm scared," she said after a moment, quieter.
"Me too," I replied.
"I keep thinking, what if they don't like my work? What if I put everything I am on a wall, and no one sees it?"
I set down my tea and moved to sit beside her.
"What if they do see it?" I said. "And they feel something? What if someone stands in front of your sketch and finally understands their own silence?"
She looked at me, eyes wide. "That's… a lot of pressure."
"It's not about pressure," I said. "It's about honesty. Sharing something real. You taught me that."
She blinked. "I did?"
I nodded. "You kept drawing even when the world stopped feeling safe. You made beauty out of the broken pieces. That's courage, Clara. That's art."
She smiled, slowly, as if absorbing the words in her bones.
"Then maybe it's your turn to be brave too," she said.
I sighed. "Publishing is… exposing."
"Welcome to the club."
We sat there, shoulder to shoulder, hearts quietly agreeing: it was time.
The next morning, Clara registered for the exhibition.
I watched her do it—clicking submit like it was nothing, though her hands trembled slightly. She didn't talk much after. Just kept sketching, over and over, until the floor was covered in paper.
She was searching for the one piece that would speak loudest.
Meanwhile, I stared at my laptop screen for two hours before finally logging into the Webnovel platform.
New Series Title:
Between Us, the Silence
Genre:
Drama. Slice of Life. Sisters. Healing.
I hesitated before clicking Publish First Episode.
I remembered my therapist once said, The most personal stories are often the most universal.
With a deep breath, I pressed the button.
It was done.
The next few days were a blur of small victories.
Clara found her final piece—a sketch of two girls on opposite sides of a cracked mirror, reaching toward each other. She called it Fragments.
She framed it herself.
I published another episode.
Then another.
Readers started to comment. Mostly women. Some said things like, "I feel seen."
Others shared stories about sisters they lost, or ones they were trying to reconnect with.
It was overwhelming—in the best way.
"You're helping people," Clara said one evening as we scrolled through the feedback together.
"So are you," I replied, pointing to her sketch resting against the wall, ready for the exhibit.
She stared at it, then at me.
"I never thought this would be us," she said.
"Neither did I," I admitted. "But I'm glad it is."
The night of the exhibit, we stood outside the gallery in dresses we'd borrowed from Miriam's attic. Mine was navy blue. Clara's was soft lavender. She wore her hair up for the first time in years.
"You look like you," I said.
She smiled. "So do you."
Inside, the gallery buzzed with soft music and quiet conversation. Clara's work was displayed alongside pieces from other local artists. But her sketch—Fragments—held the center wall.
People stopped to look.
Some stared.
Some whispered.
One woman even cried.
Clara stood beside me, frozen.
"Do you want to leave?" I asked gently.
She shook her head. "No. I want to stay. I want to see what they see."
We watched in silence.
Then someone walked up—an older woman with kind eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.
"Is this yours?" she asked Clara.
Clara nodded.
"I haven't spoken to my sister in ten years," the woman said. "But this… this made me want to call her."
Clara's hand went to her heart.
"Thank you," she whispered.
When the woman walked away, Clara turned to me.
"I think… I think I understand now. Why we tell these stories. Why we create."
"To reach people we'll never meet," I said. "To remind them they're not alone."
She looked at me, eyes shining.
"Like you reminded me."
That night, after the exhibit, we walked home under the stars.
No words. Just presence.
Sisters.
And for the first time in a long, long time—whole.