Page 14 of Breaking Through

A photo caught my eye—one I must have skimmed past dozens of times. The black and white image showed Isabella Harlow at work, her brush capturing another of those magnificent waves. But there, in the background, barely in the frame...

I leaned closer. A small boy sat cross-legged on the shelter floor, a puppet dancing in his hands. The photo quality was too poor to make out his face clearly, but something in the way he held himself, the careful attention he gave the puppet.

"Huh." The sound escaped before I could catch it. The date on the article was right. The boy would have been around five.

It was likely young Holden Harlow, during a summer visit, watching his grandmother paint while he played with thepuppets he'd eventually inherit. I traced the edge of the photo with my finger, wondering if he remembered that day. The article mentioned the puppet—an antique European marionette of a wizard that Isabella had brought back from a trip to Prague.

The coffee in my mug had gone cold. Weak sunlight now streamed through the windows, turning the office's institutional white walls pale gold. I couldn't stop staring at the boy in the photo, trying to connect him to the man who looked at broken things and saw beauty waiting for discovery.

"Early research?" Tom's voice made me jump. I hadn't heard him come in.

"Just reviewing the shelter's history. For the blog piece." I started to close the folder.

"Wait." Tom reached past me, tapping the photo. "Is that who I think it is?"

"Maybe." I tried to sound casual. "The timing fits."

Tom studied the image, then me. "Interesting how things circle around in a small town. Almost like—"

"Don't." I shoved the folder back into the file cabinet more forcefully than necessary. "It's just background for the preservation work."

After pouring himself a cup of coffee, Tom returned to me. "You're doing that thing again." His voice cut through my thoughts. He filled the doorway with his solid presence and his weathered face, creased with knowing concern.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you try to sort a person like they're a maintenance request. Pretty sure there's no checkbox for 'photographer with disarming smile' on our standard forms."

I glared at him. "I could create one. Under 'potential park hazards.'"

I shuffled papers that were already perfectly aligned. "The storm shelter inspection is routine. Parker's blog brings attention to the park's preservation efforts."

"Mhmm." Tom settled into the chair across from me. "And you've reorganized these reports four times because of preservation efforts?"

Heat crept up the back of my neck. "Don't you have trails to check?"

"Already done. Stop deflecting." His voice softened. "You know, I was here when Isabella painted those scenes. She'd work for hours in that confined space, adding light to the darkest corners. Said every storm had moments of grace if you knew where to look."

The parallel wasn't subtle. "You should handle the tour then."

"Some stories need to be told by someone who understands both sides of the canvas." Tom set his mug down with quiet purpose. "Someone who's seen both destruction and beauty up close."

My scars twinged, a phantom reminder of Chicago's heat. "It's just a blog piece."

"No, it isn't." Tom stood, bones creaking. "And we both know it." He paused at the door. "Nine o'clock, right?"

At eight-fifty, I stood outside the storm shelter, examining the door's weathered hinges with unnecessary intensity. I had a notebook in one hand and a camp lantern in the other. Morning air wrapped around me, pine-sharp and clean after the storm. Birds had returned to the trees, their songs a counterpoint to my thundering heart.

Footsteps approached, deliberate on the gravel path. I forced myself to breathe normally.

"Good morning." Holden's voice was warm like early sunlight. "Thanks for meeting me."

I turned, keeping my movements measured and professional. He stood in the clearing with his camera, morning light catching the highlights in his chestnut brown hair. His green eyes shone like small puddles reflecting the forest's pine canopy.

His blue plaid shirt fit him well—too well—sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded from whatever workout routine kept him looking like that. Twenty-five, I reminded myself firmly. The kid was twenty-five, and I had no business noticing how his jeans fit or the way he moved with unconscious grace.

"Morning." I managed to keep my voice steady. "I came out here late afternoon yesterday. There's some water damage in the northeast corner. We should check that first."

"Is it bad?" Genuine concern shadowed Holden's face. "Gran's section—is it..."

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