Page 15 of Breaking Through

Something in his voice, that genuine care for work done decades ago, made my carefully constructed walls wobble. "Some damage, but the heart of it survived. Here, let me show you."

I pulled out my keys, achingly aware of him standing close enough that I caught hints of coffee and sandalwood. The lock fought me as always, requiring the usual wrestling match.

"Temperamental?" A smile colored his voice.

"Like everything in this park." I jiggled the key harder. "Even the squirrels have attitude problems. Had one throw pine cones at me last week."

"Maybe it's not the squirrels," Holden suggested innocently. "Maybe it's your charming approach."

I shot him a look that made most hikers apologize and back away. He just grinned wider.

I got the door open and gestured for Holden to follow me inside. "Mind your step. The floor's uneven."

My flashlight beam cut through the shadows, finding the wall where Isabella's gentle scenes balanced Marcus Beltran'sstorms. A water stain crept down from the ceiling like tears, bleeding into the edges of a sunrise.

Crouching down, I lit the lantern, and as soon as its light flooded the space, I attached the flashlight to my work belt.

Holden moved closer to the wall, his camera forgotten. His fingers hovered near the damaged paint, careful not to touch it but close enough to feel its history. "I never saw these finished when she was alive. It took years to complete it. She asked me to visit and see the final product, but by then, I was a teenager and wrapped up in my own world. Too busy planning my future to appreciate her present."

The raw honesty in his voice reached past my defenses, touching something that recognized regret. "She captured moments most people miss." I found myself joining Holden, a mere step apart. "Look here—see how she layered the colors? Most artists focus on the dramatic—crashing waves and lightning strikes. Isabella saw beauty in the quiet spaces between storms."

He turned to me with surprise on his face. "You know her technique well."

"Part of the job. Historical preservation."

"Is that why you're here? At Michigami?"

The question was gentle, but it hit like a body blow. I looked at the wall instead of his too-perceptive eyes and let the question go. "She built the fog through transparency, not heavy oils like Marcus used. Makes it feel alive like it's still rising after all these years."

Holden leaned closer to see where I pointed. "That's amazing. You know, for someone who growls at the morning coffee maker, you're surprisingly poetic about art."

"I don't growl at the coffee maker."

"Maya says you do. Says you treat it like it's personally offended your ancestors."

"She needs to spend less time gossiping and more time checking trail markers."

"See? There's the growling I was talking about."

I realized too late that our shoulders were nearly touching. The proximity sent an electric sensation up my spine, but I couldn't make myself step back.

"She never talked about how she did it." Holden's voice was quiet, intimate in the shelter's close air. "By the time I was old enough to really ask, to understand what she was creating here..."

I pulled my field notebook from my back pocket, needing something to do with my hands. "The technique is actually pretty specific. Here—" Before I could stop myself, I was sketching, my pencil moving in quick, sure strokes across the page. "She built it in layers, like this."

The drawing took shape under my fingers. It recreated a small mural section, showing how the paint layers created depth. I added notation arrows, falling into the familiar rhythm of technical illustration.

"Wait." Holden pushed his shoulder against mine, warmth radiating from his body to mine. "You can draw? Like, really draw?"

I forced my hand not to tighten on the pencil. "Basic skill. From the fire department. Investigation work requires accurate scene documentation."

"This isn't basic anything." His finger hovered over the sketch, not quite touching. "You captured the light exactly how it hits that corner of the mural. See how it creates that glow effect? That's not technical documentation, Wade. That's art."

"It's just—"

"And here." Holden pointed to where I'd detailed the paint layers. "You showed how the colors blend, depicting it in scales of gray. That's exactly how Gran's technique worked. Iremember watching her build those fog effects when I was little, but I never understood how until seeing your drawing."

I should have put the notebook away. Should have steered us back to professional distance. Instead, I found myself turning to a fresh page. "The really clever part was how she handled the transitions. Look—"

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