“It’s all here. The raw wilderness, the struggle, the… thegrief. It’s all here, in your work.”
I see a tremor in his hand, and this time, he doesn’t deny it.
He doesn’t growl. He just… stands there, letting me see him, truly see him, through the lens of his art.
He finally meets my gaze, and for the first time since I stepped into this cabin, the hard mask of indifference cracks.
A raw, vulnerable emotion flashes in his eyes. A look of surprise, and perhaps, a tiny, fragile spark of… appreciation.
Chapter 3
Penny
Istand frozen at the workbench, Edward’s sketchbook trembling in my hands, the scent of charcoal and old paper filling the air.
The storm claws at the cabin walls, rattling the windows like a beast desperate to be let in. Inside, though, the world feels suspended, caught between firelight and shadows.
My heart hammers in my chest.
These drawings… these pieces of him… They're raw and unguarded in a way the man himself might not have ever been.
My thumb traces the edge of the sketchpad, gritty with charcoal dust that smells like sorrow and pine resin.
Outside, the storm screams. Inside, the fire crackles. All of it, the entire world around us seems to echo the despair in his drawings.
He shifts his weight, a low creak from the floorboard the only sound besides the wind.
The town below, Scottsdale, calls him a hermit. A ghost story. My parents warned me he was broken beyond repair. They never mentioned the artist. They never saw the soul screaming across these pages.
Would they even know? Has anyone ever tried to get to know him?
The cabin shrinks. Suddenly, it's just the two of us, the fire, and this terrifying, beautiful truth laid bare between us.
For a breathless moment, I don’t see the scowling recluse with the rifle. I see the haunted soldier. The lone wolf. The artist.
When I finally lift my eyes, Edward is still behind me. His broad frame blocks the firelight, his presence heavy, immovable, impossible to ignore. The silence between us stretches taut, filled with the crackle of the flames and the storm’s mournful wail.
And then, his voice breaks through.
“You… you really think so?” he asks, the question loaded with more words than he's used all night.
I nod, unable to speak, too overwhelmed by the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
We’re no longer just two strangers trapped by a storm. We’re two artists, speaking a language beyond words, connecting through the universal tapestry of creation and pain.
“Of course. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
He scoffs, a low rumble like distant thunder. "It's just scratches on paper. Doesn't change anything."
His massive hand reaches past my shoulder and snatches the sketchbook away, the sudden movement making me flinch. He slams it shut, charcoal dust puffing into the firelight like dark snow.
"You're too young to understand."
"Understand what?" I ask, curious to know the man beyond the drawings.
He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. "That the world eats beauty whole. Chews it up, piece by piece and shits out the ruins."
I step closer, ignoring the way his shoulders tense. "Spoken like a true artist."
