Page 57 of Breaking Through

Wade's hand found mine, steady and warm. "Stop doing that."

"What?"

"Diminishing your work. Acting like capturing beauty is somehow less valuable than other contributions." He wove his fingers together with mine. "You show people things they walk past daily but never really see. That matters."

The lake stretched before us, still wearing its sunrise colors. Morning mist blurred the horizon line where the water met the sky, making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Everything felt like that today—boundaries shifting, familiar lines dissolving.

"My parents called again last night. They want to help set up meetings with galleries in Portland. Mom's already researching apartments near the Alberta Arts District."

Wade's hand tightened on mine for just a moment before relaxing. "That's... that's good, right? They're finally seeing you as an artist."

"Yeah, but—" I broke off the words as my phone chimed. It was another message from the magazine editor:

Your perspective on wild spaces and community connection is exactly what we're looking for. The way you document both preservation and change... When can we discuss the details?

I whispered to Wade like I was worried the editor could hear me through the phone. "I should be excited. This is everything I thought I wanted when I first picked up a camera. So why does it feel like I'm being pulled apart?"

Wade tugged me closer, his body solid and warm against the morning chill. "Because you've got roots now. Real ones, not projections." He pressed his lips to my temple. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."

He led me toward his truck while our coffee cups left trails of steam in our wake. The familiar scent of pine needles and leather filled the cab as Wade drove toward the park. He was unusually quiet, but it wasn't his brooding silence. It was more like he was holding back for an unexpected reveal.

We parked near the visitor center, which was still closed this early. Wade pulled a folder from behind his seat, his hands almost nervous as he handed it to me.

"I've been working on this almost since Chicago." I took the folder. "It started as just a vague idea, but then I talked to Mike Sullivan—a Marine vet who comes up to sketch at Eagle Point most mornings—and things started falling into place."

I opened the folder and began reading. With each page, my eyes opened wider. The proposal outlined an art therapy program combining Wade's experience with trauma recovery and my eye for finding beauty in unexpected places. The shelter would be a centerpiece, using Gran's murals to show how art could preserve memory while processing pain.

"Wade, this is..." I traced the careful diagrams showing outdoor workshop spaces and exhibition areas. "You did all this?"

"Maya helped with the environmental education components. And Tom's got connections at the VA hospital in Milwaukee." His voice was gruff, like when he tried not to show how much something meant to him. "We could start small—weekend workshops, maybe some rotating exhibitions in the visitor center. But eventually..."

He turned to face me fully, and the morning light caught the silver in his hair. "You don't have to choose, Holden. Betweenyour art getting recognition and staying connected here, we can build something that lets you do both."

Tears pricked at my eyes as I studied the plans. Everything was there—spaces for photography workshops, areas for different artistic mediums, and ways to combine healing with creativity. Wade had even sketched possible layouts for gallery spaces in the expanded visitor center.

"But your nightmares..." I touched a sketch showing the shelter's planned renovation. "Using this space for therapy sessions..."

"Are getting better." He caught my hand, pressing it against his chest where I could feel his heartbeat. "Maybe it's time to help others find what you helped me discover—that broken places can become something new."

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Maria:

Please return at your earliest convenience. Your parents are dangerous when left to their own devices.

A laugh bubbled up through my happy tears. "Everything's happening at once."

"Isn't that the way of the world?" Wade smiled. "Come on. There's more."

The visitor center's back door opened silently—ranger privileges. Wade flipped on just one set of lights, illuminating the mostly empty exhibition space. For the first time in months, it wasn't entirely empty. Sketches covered one wall. Some were in Wade's recognizable precise style, while others were rougher—landscapes and nature studies in various mediums.

"Mike's been sharing his work with other vets," Wade explained softly. "They've been meeting informally, just drawingand talking. When I mentioned the program idea..." He gestured at the wall. "These appeared. They want to be part of it."

I moved closer, studying each piece. Some showed the lake in various moods; others captured trail scenes or wildlife. One particularly striking charcoal drawing showed hands reaching up through pine branches toward light.

I bit my lip. "They're already healing here. Already finding their way back through art."

"Like I did. Like your grandmother helped others do with the shelter murals." Wade's hand settled onto my lower back. "You don't have to turn down the magazine or the galleries. This could be a home base—somewhere your art could help others while still reaching wider audiences."

"I need..." My voice cracked as I stared at the veterans' sketches, thinking about what it meant to heal in the same place that once held your deepest wounds. The shelter could become something new for Wade, but at what cost? "I need to see Grandpa."

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