Chapter Three

Natalie's POV:

                FIVE YEARS LATER:

I sat in my art studio, surrounded by canvases covered in several colors. Some were unfinished, while others were completed yet waiting for meaning. 

I dragged my brush across the canvas, blending hues of deep blue and ivory. 

Suddenly, the door was pushed open.

"Miss Natalie!"

A small voice filled the room, followed by hurried footsteps. I turned just as a little boy, no older than six, rushed to my side, clutching a medium-sized whiteboard in his tiny hands. His dark eyes were bright with excitement, his cheeks flushed from running.

"Did I do it properly?" He asked, his voice tinged with eagerness and a little nervousness.

I smiled and set down my brush, placing my palette on the wooden stand beside me. Wiping my paint-streaked hands on my apron, I pulled it off and knelt before him, taking the board from his hands.

"It's looking great, Kelvin." I praised, scanning the sketch of a small house surrounded by trees, the lines were wobbly yet it looked nice. "But I still need to see what the other kids drew to determine the winner."

His lips pursed for a second, then he nodded. "Okay."

I reached out, ruffling his soft curls before taking his hand and leading him out of the drawing room. 

The hallway was filled with the laughter of children, and as I pushed open the classroom door, the room erupted into loud chatter.

"Miss Natalie, look at mine!"

"Mine is the best!"

"Pick me!"

I raised my hands, signaling them to settle down. "I'll go desk by desk, so stay in your seats, alright?"

The children quickly obeyed, their excitement barely contained. One by one, I moved around, examining their artwork, offering smiles and corrections. 

Their creativity always amazed me. Some followed the instructions perfectly, while others added their wild imagination.

Five years ago, I never imagined this would be my life. I had bigger dreams and larger aspirations. But now, I am an art teacher for middle and elementary scholars. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was fulfilling. 

Being around these kids made sense in a way nothing else did anymore.

After reviewing each painting, I finally settled on a winner. "And the prize goes to... Emily!"

A little girl with pigtails gasped. I handed her a small gift—a box of high-quality colored pencils.

"For everyone else,” I announced, pulling out a bag of candies. "You all did an amazing job, so no one leaves empty-handed!"

Excited cheers filled the room as I handed out the sweets. Thirty minutes later, parents began arriving, the room slowly emptying. I watched as each child was picked up, their faces lighting up at the sight of their parents.

But one boy remained.

Seated at the back, his head down, sketching absentmindedly. He was always the last to leave, always picked up by different people—an uncle one day, a grandmother the next. 

He was quiet, and reserved, but his paintings were extraordinary. Unlike the other kids, he never stuck to the given themes. He painted things beyond his years. Shadow in empty rooms, faceless figures, stormy skies.

I walked up to him and crouched beside his desk. "Is your mom picking you up today?"

He nodded, still focused on his sketch.

A knock on the door made us both look up. Mrs. Smith, his mother, stood at the entrance. She was a beautiful woman, dressed in a floral gown, and she looked exhausted.

"Thank you, Miss Natalie." She said softly. "Come on, sweetheart."

The boy closed his book and got up, walking past me without a word. But before leaving, he turned back and gave me a small smile. It was fleeting, barely there—but it meant something.

“Could I have a moment?” I asked.

Mrs. Smith hesitated before speaking again. “Sure.”

I nodded, gesturing toward the chair opposite my desk. She told her son to wait in the car, then sat down with a sigh.

"I wanted to talk about him." I began gently. "I’ve been monitoring his artwork for the past two weeks, and I see a pattern. His paintings... they feel Dark." I pulled out a few of his latest pieces and laid them on the table. A dimly lit hallway with a single flickering light. A crying child standing in the rain. A woman with hollow eyes looking out of a window.

Mrs. Smith pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

"I think he’s lonely,” I said carefully. "Have you considered a therapist? Or maybe just spending more time with him?"

She let out a shaky breath. "I try... but it’s been hard." Her voice broke. "His father... passed away last year. A car accident. He was the one who always took him to art classes, and spent weekends painting with him. They were inseparable." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Since then, he barely speaks. He doesn’t smile. But whenever he talks about coming to this class, his face lights up."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Thank you." She whispered. "For being patient with him."

She gave me a grateful smile, then left.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. This was why I loved this job—understanding these kids and helping them in whatever small way I could.

As I reached for my brush, my gaze landed on something left on my desk. Mrs. Smith’s wallet.

I grabbed it and hurried out, stepping onto the sidewalk. She was still there, parked across the street, her hands gripping the steering wheel, head bowed as if she were still crying.

I sighed and decided to cross.

Just as I stepped onto the road, I heard it.

A deep, thunderous honk.

A blinding set of headlights.

The sound of tires screeching.

Before I could react, metal slammed into my body with unbearable force.

Everything became a blur—the sky tilting, the world spinning. I felt myself being thrown, weightless for a split second, before crashing onto the pavement.

Pain. Everywhere.

My head smacked against the concrete. A sharp pain shot through my skull. My vision flickered, dark spots dancing at the edges. The muffled sound of screaming, and footsteps rushing toward me.

Then, everything went blank.