She holds up her paper. It’s a green hill under a sky filled with lopsided, enthusiastically shaded clouds.

Before you can answer, she goes still. Her crayon stops mid-swipe. She looks up at you, her small face suddenly serious, her head tilting to one side.

The front door clicks open. Footsteps in the hallway. A tall, lean figure appears in the archway, shrugging off a worn backpack. Dark, messy hair. A simple grey hoodie. It’s David, Lily’s older brother, home from his after-school shift.

She darts over to him before he can react, unzipping his backpack with practiced ease. He doesn’t stop her. He’s still staring at you, a faint, stunned panic in his soft, observant eyes.

She pulls out a thick, black sketchbook, flips it open near the middle, and turns, holding it up proudly toward you. The page is filled. Sketch after sketch, in careful pencil. It’s you. You reading. You laughing. Your profile. Your eyes. Dozens of renderings, detailed and intimate, like pages from a silent, obsessive study.