Separated by tragedy at a young age, this family must reuinte to protect one of their own. Each member will be called on to use the gifts she has been given- courage, intellect, passion, unique insight into the linear passage of time-but will these gifts be enough to ensure a future without fear?

The strokes were easy today, the colors expressive, the brush an instrument of manifestation.  Lines were comfortable and soft, rather than erratic as they had been for weeks.

Kaylen dipped her brush into water to cleanse it, contemplating her next stroke.  Her gaze traveled idly across the landscape that had begun to form on her canvas; the vague outline of a hillside, the idea, warm and welcoming, of a cabin, tucked between two brooding evergreen sentries, a trickle of woodsmoke coming from the chimney-

She smiled, shook her head.  No smoke.  No fire.

The door to the art room swung into her peripheral, but failed to draw her attention away from her work.  A dozen restless artists used this room, the paints and brushes and easels…she had no reason to think the visitor required an audience.

She bit her lip, absorbed in the process.

“Nice.”  A voice, so close to her ear the murmured word rumbled like distant thunder.  She twitched and spattered water across her smock.  “Sorry, sorry.  Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, my!  You certainly did just that, though.”  She breathed with a hand pressed theatrically to her chest.

She spun slowly on her stool to get a better look at the visitor, and delighted in his direct brown eyes, a color she thought she might be able to recreate with burnt sienna and perhaps a touch of gold.  His face was a step outside unremarkable, his physique masked by loose jeans and a blazer, and though she initially put him in his late twenties, she added five years to this estimate when the details began to trickle in:  pale laugh lines, creases across a high forehead, experience and a touch of cynicism behind his easy smile.

“Oh, my.”  She said again, softly, because she had suddenly recognized his gently worn face.  

Though there was very little to critique at this early stage, he was still studying her painting, squinting at the cabin-or more accurately, where the cabin would stand, once she had strung more than a few stolen hours of work together.  His profile held half of an odd expression.  

Her smile spread.  “Nothing too harsh, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re very talented.”

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