Brushstrokes of You

The sea was her solace.

Every day, Lila set up her easel by the windswept veranda of the cottage she had rented—a quaint whitewashed place that smelled of salt and rosemary. Her days were filled with long silences and crashing waves, her canvas a faithful confidant to her sorrow and healing.

It had been two years since Thomas. Two years since the flag was folded and pressed into her arms like a final, cruel punctuation. She had escaped to the coast not to forget, but to feel again.

That morning, the tide was a glimmering silver, and she was brushing a bold line across the horizon when a wild gust of joy came barrelling toward her—on four muddy paws and a wagging tail.

The dog—a boisterous golden retriever—bounded through her easel legs, toppling everything in its wake. Lila gasped, catching the canvas just in time. A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it—her first, in a long while.

“Finn! No! I’m so sorry, he’s usually more gentleman than hurricane—” said a voice, rich and unhurried.

She looked up and saw him. Greying at the temples, sun-browned, with the kind of presence that didn’t fill the space but settled into it gently. His name was Michael. A former literature professor, semi-retired, who now lived in the old estate down the hill.

Their eyes met—and in that blink, something shifted. It wasn’t electric. It was quieter than that. Like two puzzle pieces brushing for the first time in the bottom of a box.

Days turned into walks. Conversations spilled like tidewater across coffee mugs and sand-dusted wine glasses.

She painted; he read aloud from his battered notebook of Neruda verses. Finn snored between them. The ocean, ever the voyeur, kept their secrets.

Michael never asked about Thomas, not at first. But when he finally did, it was with reverence, not pity. And when Lila shared, he listened—really listened—until her words stopped shaking.

It wasn’t a whirlwind. It was a slow bloom. But oh, what a bloom.

EPILOGUE – ONE YEAR LATER:

The gallery is modest but filled. Lila’s works line the room—ocean scapes with soft glimmers of light that seem to whisper of second chances. Beside her, Michael, in a navy blazer that smells faintly of sea salt and linen, squeezes her hand. She turns to him, smiles.

“You saved my painting,” she says.

He leans close. “And you saved the part of me I didn’t realize was fading.”

Outside, the waves roll in. Gentle. Steady. Home.

THE BLUFF – GOLDEN HOUR

The ocean stretches endlessly, glistening beneath a sky painted in soft hues of lavender and rose gold. Wildflowers dot the edges of the grassy bluff, and sheer white fabric flutters from a driftwood arch.

Lila walks barefoot down a shell-lined aisle, her gown simple, flowing—paint-streaked hands now carrying a bouquet of sea lavender and eucalyptus. Finn trots ahead of her with a silk ribbon around his collar, tail high, proudly delivering the rings.

Michael waits under the arch, eyes glinting with the kind of still joy that comes from weathering storms. His blazer is a sandy beige, his shirt open at the collar. He doesn’t look at the guests—just at her.

Their vows aren’t grandiose. They’re quiet promises made in between sea gusts and birdcalls:

“I promise to never tidy your paint jars without asking.”
“I promise to always leave a page unwritten for your next chapter.”

The officiant is Solomon, who reads from Michael’s dog-eared copy of Neruda. His voice shakes on the line, “I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

They kiss—and overhead, the gulls rise in a blur of wings like nature’s confetti. A small orchestra tucked among the dune grasses plays a soft waltz as guests gather for wine, bread, and roasted peaches. No ballroom. Just bonfires and bare feet and laughter echoing into the horizon.