Page 32 of Breaking Through

"That was painfully obvious. You were mostly humming 'hmm hmm hmm' with occasional mumbled words that definitely weren't in the original. I think Andy Williams just rolled over in his grave." His eyes crinkled with familiar warmth. "Want to tell me what's really keeping you up? Besides your terrible taste in midnight serenades?"

I'd found a treasure trove in her journals—not only techniques for restoration but also her philosophy about healing through art. My fingers traced her elegant script:The process of restoration isn't about erasing damage but about honoring the journey of healing. Every crack tells a story. Every repair adds to the history.

The words hit differently now that I was falling for someone whose scars ran deeper than skin. I couldn't put Wade's face out of my mind. It was how he winced slightly when he let me touch him.

I picked up a loose page and reread Gran's words. The paper was soft with age, and her handwriting covered both sides:

Art speaks when words fail. It gives shape to pain too deep for language. Sometimes, the greatest gift we can offer is simply witnessing someone else's process of becoming whole.

Grandpa spoke again. "This all is keeping you up late. Why don't we both go to bed?"

His oxygen tube trailed behind him like a faithful pet. "Why are you up?" He was usually only awake so late when something was wrong. "Everything okay?"

"Just restless." He settled into Gran's old wicker chair, the one that still held the impression of her body after all these years. "I would have thought you would be having sweet dreams by now. You've been practically floating since you got home."

"I have not."

"Please." He smiled, and his eyes twinkled. "You've been flitting around and humming all evening."

The journal's pages rustled as I closed it. "Wade showed me his cabin."

"Ah." Grandpa's voice softened. "That's quite a gift of trust, and do I want to know what happened there."

I blushed fully. "Nothing—well, something, but not what you're worried about." I struggled to find the right words. "I got to see even more of his sketches. He captures light even in the darkest moments. Just like Gran did."

"Belle always said art was how we process the things we can't say out loud." Grandpa adjusted his oxygen tube. "She'd spend hours in here after difficult days, claiming she was just experimenting with techniques. I knew better. She was working through whatever troubled her."

"I wish I'd paid more attention when she tried to teach me."

"Oh, you were paying attention." He reached for one of Gran's journals. "You just didn't know it yet. The way you see the world through that camera of yours? Pure Belle. Always finding exquisitely lovely things in unexpected places."

My phone chimed—a text from Wade:

Can't sleep. Thinking about today.

Before I could respond, another message appeared:

Thank you for seeing past the scars.

Grandpa pointed at me. "That smile right there. That's exactly how I used to look when your grandmother would leave little notes in my lunch bag to take to school."

"Was it scary?" The question slipped out before I could catch it. "Falling in love with her?"

"Terrifying." He chuckled softly. "She was so bright and full of life. I was a nerdy, quiet math teacher who couldn't tell the difference between watercolor and acrylic. But you know what she told me?"

"What?"

"That love isn't about deserving. It's about choosing. Every day, we choose to see what's wonderful in each other, even when it's hidden under scars or fears or oxygen tubes." He patted the machine at his side. "Speaking of which, we really should go to bed. Maria will have our hides if she catches us up this late."

"Just a few more minutes?" I held up Gran's journal. "I want to finish this entry about her restoration philosophy."

"Alright." He settled deeper into the chair. "But read it out loud. Belle's words deserve to be heard, not just read."

I opened to a marked page. I did my best to give her words the reverent reading they deserved. "Sometimes healing looks like destruction at first. We have to scrape away old patches and temporary fixes before we can start true restoration. It's messy and painful, but necessary..."

A harsh buzz from my phone interrupted. Mom's FaceTime icon filled the screen.

Grandpa recognized the sound. "At this hour?" His forehead creased.

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