Penny had expected her first free Saturday in this new-old life to feel calmer. It didn't.
She kept waking up to the same looping awareness:
I'm Penny Teller now. I reincarnated. I have a system. A possible soulbond.
And her new mantra: Don't break Sheldon. Don't break canon. Don't break you.
So of course she cleaned.
After two hours of wiping down surfaces that didn't need wiping, rearranging her closet twice, and giving up on organizing the kitchen because even she didn't know what half of these thrifted gadgets did… Penny found the box.
It sat wedged behind the couch, fragile tape peeling, labeled in faded marker:
"Mom → Penny. Keep safe."
Her breath hitched. Inherited items.
She tugged the box into the light and opened it.
Sketchbooks. Five of them.
The covers were dented, corners frayed, but the moment her fingers brushed the paper, a warm, familiar current rippled through her.
"…I remember these," she whispered.
Not from canon. Not from Penny Teller's memories.
From her own.
From Elisabeth, the woman she used to be.
She flipped open the first book.
Charcoal portraits. Costume designs. Fantasy wings and armored warrior girls. An entire world she'd once dreamed of building.
Her throat tightened.
"Okay," she muttered. "One way to test if reincarnation stole everything or if I still have, you know… me."
She sharpened a pencil.
She sat cross-legged on the carpet, sketchbook braced against her knees, and—
It poured out.
Lines smooth, shading instinctive, proportions clicking into place like she had never left her old body.
Within minutes, she was lost in the flow.
A girl warrior with spiraling galaxy-wing armor stood on the page. Half Valkyrie, half starlight. A concept she'd doodled years ago but never finished.
She wrote the title on the top corner:
STARFALL VALKYRIE – v1
A tiny spark of joy lit up in her chest—real, bright, hers.
"Not all of me died," she murmured, smiling shakily.
And naturally, because the universe had a sense of humor and timing, the front door opened.
"Penny? Are you— Why are you on the floor?" Sheldon's voice, clipped but tinged with curiosity.
She froze.
Then she remembered: he usually knocks, doesn't he.
Then as if he realized it himself, Sheldon paused, then visibly recalculated his approach.
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
Knock-knock-knock.
"Penny?"
"Door's open," she said with a fond smile. She tucked her hair behind her ear and casually—very casually—placed her arm over the sketch.
He ignored the invitation and finished the knocking ritual anyway before entering. She bit back a laugh.
Baseline Sheldon, check.
Rigid patterns. Social scripts. Predictable in ways that made him safe and terrifying all at once.
He strode in with a laundry basket. "I need to borrow your dryer. One of Leonard's misguided detours into experimental softeners has resulted in an unacceptable tactile experience."
She blinked, she didn't realize she had her own washer/dryer in the apartment. Suddenly so many iconic laundry room Sheldon and Penny moments flew out the window.
"I'll take your word for it," Penny said.
He moved toward the laundry nook but paused mid-step.
His peripheral vision snagged on the page she was hiding.
"Were you… drawing?"
His tone was neutral. Too neutral.
Which meant: deep interest that he refuses to admit yet.
Penny felt a flicker of panic. Not because the art was embarrassing, but because this felt like a fork in the road. A divergence point.
This Sheldon didn't know her yet.
He didn't trust her yet.
He didn't value her yet.
But he was watching.
Curious.
Open in the way he only got before the world taught him to brace for ridicule.
She exhaled slowly and lifted her arm.
"It's an old hobby," she said softly. "Didn't know if I still had it."
He stepped closer. Not too close. Three feet away—his personal comfort zone. But his eyes scanned the page with clinical focus and startled wonder.
"That is… good."
His voice dipped toward reverent, then snapped back to controlled.
"I mean, technically competent. Anatomical proportions are consistent. The shading is—acceptable."
Penny grinned. "Wow, Sheldon Cooper: king of the lukewarm compliment."
His cheeks pinked. "I am simply making an objective observation."
"Sure, sure." Penny couldn't help but grin up at him from where she sat.
He looked again.
Longer this time.
"Starfall Valkyrie," he read. "Is this from a specific franchise?"
"Nope. Something I might turn into a graphic novel. Or a game. I don't know yet."
A pause. A shift.
"…You're creating a world," he said quietly.
She blinked. "I… guess so."
Something softened in his expression—then tightened, like he caught himself caring.
"Well," he said briskly, adjusting the laundry basket, "it's statistically rare for someone to demonstrate this level of artistic ability without significant training. You should continue."
That was Sheldonese for: This is extraordinary. Please don't stop.
Penny felt warmth spread through her chest. Not bond warmth. Real warmth.
"Thanks, Moonpie."
His head snapped up. "Don't call me that."
"Sorry." Whoopsie, her knowledge of canon made her slip up a bit.
He hovered a second longer—as if he wanted to say more—then retreated to the dryer with exaggerated nonchalance.
Penny closed the sketchbook once he disappeared around the corner.
Her heart was pounding.
She was learning his baseline.
His tells.
His rhythm.
The difference between interest and overwhelm.
The sparks of genuine curiosity that would one day maybe bloom into something deeper, if she let them.
If she didn't break the world first.
She touched the sketch on the page—her first new creation in this new life.
"Okay, Penny Teller," she whispered. "Let's build something beautiful this time."
And for the first time since waking up in this body, she believed she could.