Reflections in Shadow

3. Against the grain

Her mornings were slow. The sun would already be high when Mae rolled off her old couch, the fabric torn from years of wear, paint stains marking its surface like a record of every creative burst she'd ever had. Her apartment was small cramped, really but it didn't matter. It was hers, and it was free of the rigid expectations that suffocated most people. The walls, covered in half-finished sketches and scraps of paper filled with ideas. She made coffee in an old, chipped mug that her mother had once used, the only real remnant of home she kept around. There was something comforting about it the warmth of the mug in her hands, the ritual of sitting by the window and watching the city unfold outside. Most mornings, she didn't plan her day. She let it take shape naturally, depending on where her mind wandered, or which alley called out for a new mural.

Today was no different. Mae pulled on her usual uniform worn black jeans, a white tee that had seen better days, and her trusty leather jacket. Her dreadlocks, long and thick now, fell over her shoulders like a statement all their own. Rings stacked her fingers, some old and tarnished, others shiny and new. Her art had started to gain attention in certain circles, but not the ones that mattered to most people. She wasn't interested in gallery openings or press coverage. Her work lived on the streets, painted on the sides of buildings where everyone could see it, where the city's grit became part of her expression.Her work wasn't always about rebellion, though. Some days, she painted to remember. To honor the life her mother had lived, and the fire she had left behind. On the wall of a tucked-away alley, a mural of a woman with wild hair and a face half hidden in shadow stood out against the brick. It was Mae's most personal piece, though no one knew it. Every stroke of that brush had been for her mother, for the memory of her loud laugh and the quiet strength she had passed down to Mae.

But as much as she loved her art, it didn't pay the bills. Mae worked at a dive bar down the street a few nights a week, just enough to cover rent and buy supplies. The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the sound of rock music that rattled the walls. Mae didn't mind it, though. It was a place where people were as rough around the edges as she was.

Lately, though, there was a restlessness in Mae that even the city couldn't quiet. Her art was growing bolder, more confrontational, but something felt off. She was used to living on the edge, but there were moments, fleeting and rare, when she wondered if there was something more she was meant to be doing. The thought annoyed her, like an itch she couldn't quite scratch. She had spent her whole life rejecting the idea that she had to do anything other than what she wanted. And yet, a whisper at the back of her mind told her that maybe she wasn't as free as she thought. The city offered her freedom, sure, but it also trapped her in a cycle of repetition. Her days were predictable, even in their chaos art, work, the same old bars, the same old faces. She felt like she was stuck in a loop, and no matter how much she tried to shake it off, the feeling of wanting more gnawed at her. It wasn't about success, or fame. Mae didn't care about those things. But there was something stirring in her, that made her wonder if this was it if this was all her life would ever be.

Mae shook the thought away as she stepped out into the sunlight, her boots hitting the cracked pavement with a familiar rhythm. The day stretched ahead of her, undefined and wide open, just the way she liked it. But that nagging feeling lingered, somewhere in the corners of her mind, reminding her that even freedom could feel like a cage if you stayed in one place too long. Today, though, she wouldn't think about it. There were walls to paint, drinks to pour, and for now, that was enough. At least, that's what she told herself.