I was just at my gallery showing, if you can even call it that around here, more like a nice little gathering in the old general store that got turned into an art space a few years back. Everyone was there, Mrs. Henderson from down the road, you know, the one who always brings her famous lemon bars, and old man McGregor, even the new young couple who bought the Miller farm. And they were all saying such nice things, how lovely the colors were, how much passion they could see in the brushstrokes, and I just stood there smiling and nodding like you’re supposed to, but inside… inside I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like they were talking about someone else’s painting, someone else’s life even, and I was just a ghost standing in the corner. I mean, I *made* that painting. I spent months on it, more than I probably should have, staying up late when I should have been sleeping, pushing my old hands until they ached. And for what? For a bunch of pretty words that just float right past me. It used to be different, I swear it did. When I was younger, living out here, it felt like every single color I mixed had a piece of my soul in it. Like the red of the barns after a fresh coat, or the deep greens of the fields just before harvest, those felt like ME. I remember painting a portrait of old Mrs. O’Malley’s prize-winning cow, Bessie, and I just got lost in it, completely. Days would go by and I wouldn't even notice. I mean, Bessie wasn't exactly a masterpiece, but it was honest. It was alive. And now… I look at this one, this big one that everyone was raving about, all these bright blues and oranges that are supposed to be a sunset over the creek, and it just feels… empty. Like I just went through the motions. And everyone says it’s my best work yet, my LEGACY they were saying. And I just feel like I’ve fooled them all. Like I’m some kind of fraud. And it’s not like I can just stop, not now, not after all this. Everyone here knows me as the painter lady. What else would I even do? And that’s the thing, isn’t it? When you live in a place like this, you get slotted into a role, and that’s just… it. There aren’t a whole lot of options for changing your mind, or trying something new when you’re nearly 60, are there? I just keep thinking about that time I almost went to the city for art school, a lifetime ago. My mother, God rest her soul, she meant well, but she always said "A bird in the hand, dear." And I stayed. And I painted. And now everyone thinks I'm happy, that I've achieved something. And I just feel like I’ve lost whatever spark I ever had. Like I missed my chance to be… truly happy. And I don’t even know what that would look like anymore. It’s too late to even figure that out, probably. Just endless sunsets and cows for the rest of my days, I suppose. And everyone thinking they’re looking at something special. What a trick to play on yourself.