She stuck her brushes into the jar, and pigment spread into dappled patches on the glass. The cobalt blue and bright yellow that had just surged across the canvas now clung to the bristles, still damp with freshness.

Only a floor lamp remained lit in the studio, and the blurred city lights outside the window shimmered like scattered stars. Leaning against the wall with a mug in her hands, she watched the brushes in the jar—their tips had once dipped into morning mist and evening glow, and had also blended the gray of heartbreak and the pink of reunion.

There was no need to rush to clean them; let the pigment dry slowly on the handles, as if sealing an entire year’s emotions within. When the next inspiration arrives in the dead of night, they will once more be dipped in color and continue to grow her own universe on the canvas.