A small tube of paint had rolled off the shelf. Not fallen—rolled. Straight toward the canvas. It stopped an inch from the leg of the easel.
Mia dropped the brush.
She signed the bottom right corner with trembling fingers. Not her usual bold M—just a whisper of a letter. Then she stepped back again.
Not a painted star. A real one. Tiny, distant, but unmistakably alive. It pulsed once, twice—then winked.