Page 50 of Breaking Through

Wade set the sketches down with careful hands. "Try me."

"Photogenesismagazine wants my park photos." The words tumbled out. "They're doing a feature on unconventional nature photography. And there's talk of a gallery showing in Portland."

"That's incredible." Wade's voice was warm and congratulatory. "Your eye for this place, the way you capture its spirit—they'd be crazy not to notice."

"But it's just my morning ritual. Three shots a day with a Polaroid Now, nothing special—"

"Stop." He crossed to where I stood. "Remember what you told me in Chicago? About not diminishing parts of ourselves?"

I did. It was before his speech when he thought his scars spoke only of failure.

"That's different."

"Is it?" His hands settled on my shoulders. "Your art matters, Holden. It's not just pretty pictures—you show people how to cut through the unnecessary noise and see things. Like those shots of the storm damage last month. You didn't focus solely on the destruction; you caught all those moments of neighbors helping neighbors."

"The Portland gallery thing, though." I swallowed hard. "It would mean traveling. I'd build new connections out there. Maybe even—"

"Maybe even remembering why you dreamed of working in arts and culture before Blue Harbor?" His voice was gentle but firm. "That's allowed, you know."

I stepped back, needing space to breathe. Pushing through the ventilation shaft, late afternoon light painted patterns on the floor. My camera hung heavy around my neck, its familiar weight suddenly as comforting as Wade's hand in mine. The viewfinder called to me—that small square window where chaos always seemed to resolve itself into meaning.

Wade must have read my expression. Without a word, he moved back, giving me space to work. That's what I loved about photographing him—he understood the language of light and composition almost instinctively. He never posed, just existed in the moment, letting me find the shot.

He spoke softly. "The light's doing that thing you love where it catches the dust motes."

He was right. The autumn sun slanting through the shaft had turned the air itself into art, tiny particles dancing like stars in slow motion. They drifted over Gran's sketches where they lay scattered across his work table, creating halos around the edges of her careful pencil strokes.

I raised the camera, but lowered it again. "Would you... could you lean in a bit? Over the drawings?"

Wade moved with deliberate grace, the kind he usually reserved for approaching injured wildlife on the trails. He bent slightly over the table, one hand resting near Gran's studies of waves.

Perfect. But not quite...

"Can you look at that sketch you were holding earlier? The one with her notes about light?"

His fingers found the paper without hesitation. The way he handled Gran's art—gentle and respectful as if he understoodhow precious these fragments of her process were—made my fingers tingle.

Through the viewfinder, everything aligned: Wade's strong hands cradling Gran's delicate work, sunbeams turning ordinary air into magic, and the shelter's shadowed walls holding a decades-old artistic legacy. Past and present, strength and tenderness, darkness and light—all contained in one frame.

The camera's mechanical whir echoed off the concrete walls. I loved that about my camera—how it announced each capture like a small celebration or maybe a promise: Here is a moment worth keeping, something you'll want to remember.

The image developed slowly, with whites and grays emerging from chemical darkness like dawn breaking over the lake. First, Wade's hands came into focus, then the papers beneath them, and finally, the light itself seemed to leak from the frame's edges.

It wasn't the kind of photo that would impress magazine editors. It wasn't even technically good. But it captured exactly how I felt—suspended between what was and what could be, watching someone I loved handle pieces of my past with unexpected care while future possibilities swirled around us.

"You know what your grandmother wrote here?" Wade picked up one of the sketches. "'Light changes everything it touches. The trick is learning to change with it.'" He paused. "She was talking about painting technique, but—"

"But it's never just about technique with Gran." I stared at the developed photo and then at the shelter walls where her work still spoke to anyone willing to listen. "She had offers, you know. From galleries in Chicago, Milwaukee, and even New York. Grandpa told me about that last week."

"What did she do?"

"She accepted some and rejected others, but her focus always returned here." The weight of my upcoming decisions pressed against my chest. "I just don't know how to balance it all: themagazine, the gallery possibilities, and everything we've built here."

"With your grandfather's health improving? With the blog taking off? With us?" Wade's question hung in the air between us.

"Yeah." My voice cracked. "Everything's shifting at once, and I can't—I don't know how to—"

The shelter door opened, spilling more light across the floor. Maya spoke from outside: "Wade? We've got hikers stuck up on Eagle Point. A little whip of a storm's coming in fast."

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