Birthday Surprise [Dreams + Hans]

Today is a painting day.

I have many other days. Sketching days, sewing days, knitting days. Or nothing days when I don't feel like focusing at all. Those days are few, though. The need to create overwhelms, it's everywhere. It's in the wind, it's in the trees, it's in the dust that roams my house. You just have to be able to see it. You just have to believe that it's there, and it will be. I see faces in knots of tree roots, I see wings and flowers made out of leaves. It's sad that others don't, though.

I stretch my arms and sit up in bed. It was narrow and rough, and my toes stick out from the quilt that was fashioned for me years ago. My feet are cold, but I pull on fuzzy socks and warmth floods my stiff skin. Some part of me doesn't want to get up. It just wants to lay warm in the bed under the thin sheets. Or at least the parts that are covered by it, that is. A light yawn escapes my lips, but at least no one is here to be awoken by it. My brother is probably out somewhere and Father is at work by now. I can tell by the way that the pale sun casts shadows shadows across the room. They're long right now, which means it's early. I seem to always wake up at this time. Alone. Not that I don't mind, though. The stillness and silence suits me perfectly fine. And I don't get judged on nothing days for just lying on the mattress and thinking. I almost feel like it's a nothing day, but I see my paint brush laying on my desk. And then I'm drawn back. It's a painting day.

My feet hit the floor with a soft creak. There are so many weak floorboards that scatter my house, and I never know which ones are which, except for the one I just set off, because I do it every morning. My nightgown swishes around my knees, the silky material rubbing against my skin. I peel it off and it's replaced by a soft olive green shirt and tight brown pants. My fingers clasp around my brush and grab some crinkly parchment paper that you can find anywhere if you know where to look for it. I ponder whether to bring my charcoal, and just as I walk out the door, I reach back and snatch it, just in case.

I slip on a warm brown jacket and a dull green hat that sags over the messy hair I decided not to brush. Worn leather boots clack across the wooden flooring and I wrap my thin glove encased fingers around the knob and twist. A rush of cold air blows the several strands that aren't hidden by my hat back as I step outside. Besides the temperature and the wind, the day is nice. The sunrise is full of vibrant colors, colors I could only imagine it would take days and days to find the berries to match. But it definitely would be worth it. With all of my supplies tucked under my arm, I set off towards the stream I discovered years ago, back when Mother was still alive.

I make my way across stepping stones towards the center. It's wide and it goes up to mid-calf for me. There's a big rock in the middle that I stand on, when it's a painting day. I stare out, I try to see something to transfer on paper. Flowers and the very river I'm standing in won't do, I've done them million times before. But I see a fox. Excitedly, I take out my charcoal and sketch a decent shape before it disappears into the brush, frightened by my presence. The russet shade would be fun to make. It was, indeed, a painting day.

I hear footsteps. I acknowledge them, but don't turn around to see who exactly it is. "People don't come here often." I say clearly and flatly, because it's true. Most people don't. I turn around slowly and see a boy. He has brown eyes and black hair, with a decent build for Eight. I turn around again and finish the main outline of my fox. It's narrow snout and skinny legs seem so graceful. It's beautiful, and odd how pretty everything can be. And yet we take it all for granted. But then again, there are a lot of things we wish we could take for granted. Like freedom.

"It's amazing, that people can actually find this."