Bonus Chapter: Ling's First Painting

It started with insomnia.

The house was asleep — Orm curled beside their daughter, the moonlight soft across the hallway floor. But Ling was wide awake, perched in the study with her cane resting against the wall and a glass of untouched tea cooling beside her.

Her thoughts were too loud.

She wheeled quietly down the hall, past the library, toward the little sunroom that Orm had claimed as her art space — and had slowly made their shared retreat.

The scent of acrylic and lavender lingered in the air.

Ling looked at the spare easel Orm had set up months ago, never pushing, just waiting. There was a blank canvas on it.

A dare.

A door.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then, without overthinking, she sat down and picked up the brush.

---

It wasn’t graceful.

Her hand trembled at first. The colors weren’t chosen — they were grabbed. Her lines weren’t clean. Her composition was nonexistent.

But something inside her had waited years to scream without making a sound.

So she let the paint speak.

Red. The rage of what was taken. The blood in her leg the night of the crash. The burn of betrayal from a man who should’ve protected her.

Blue. The ache of loneliness. Boardrooms and hospital beds. Cold porcelain floors and colder dreams.

Grey. For the wheelchair. For the suit. For the armor she wore so long it fused into her bones.

But slowly, she reached for other shades.

Yellow. A certain laugh in the kitchen. A sunflower left in her teacup.

Pink. Soft lips against hers. Cheeks flushed after wine. Tenderness that never asked her to hurry.

And green.

The kind that bloomed when Orm whispered, “You’re still growing.”

---

She didn’t realize Orm was standing in the doorway until she set the brush down.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ling said softly.

“You didn’t,” Orm whispered. “I woke up and… I just knew.”

She walked over slowly, barefoot, arms crossed in front of her. She looked at the canvas.

Not beautiful. Not precise.

But honest.

“I see you in this,” Orm said, eyes shining.

Ling looked away. “It’s messy.”

“It’s real,” Orm corrected. “And raw. And strong. Just like you.”

Orm leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ling’s temple.

“Do you know how proud I am of you?”

Ling said nothing. Just leaned into her, eyes damp.

That night, they didn’t go back to bed.

They fell asleep on the sunroom floor, wrapped in a blanket, Ling’s first painting drying slowly beside them.

---

The next morning, their daughter waddled into the room, pointed at the canvas, and said:

“Mommy, that’s your heart!”

Ling blinked. Orm just grinned and whispered, “Told you so.”