The weekend at the Swan residence wasn't exactly a spiritual retreat; it was more of a corrective maintenance marathon. Charlie is a good man, but his notion of "home" is limited to the roof not caving in and the TV being tuned to the game. I spent part of Saturday fixing a kitchen shelf that threatened to decapitate Bella and unclogging a pipe that emitted guttural sounds worthy of a horror movie.
By Saturday morning, Bella already had a mile-long shopping list. She handed it to me with that "if I go, I'll probably end up crushed under a shelf of canned goods" look, so I took the keys to the Chevy and headed to the only decent supermarket in the area.
The place was strangely empty, which I appreciated. My social battery was still charging, and I didn't want any interference. I was walking down the dairy aisle, comparing yogurt brands with the same intensity I use to compare graphite grades, when my radar went off.
A few meters away, examining boxes of tea, stood a woman. She wasn't just any woman. She had that same marble paleness as the kids from high school, the same supernatural elegance in the way she held a simple carton of milk. Her eyes, a deep, liquid amber, glowed under the aisle's fluorescent lights. She was the missing piece in my collection of "living statues."
I stood frozen, pretending to be deeply interested in the nutritional content of some cereal, but my mind was already tracing the angle of her cheekbone. She possessed a beauty that was maternal yet ancient, like a goddess of the earth trapped in a porcelain body. I began to visualize her in my sketchbook: a gothic Mother Nature, with roots entwining her crystal feet.
I was so lost in the mental design, analyzing how the light bounced off her skin, that I didn't register the movement behind my back until it was too late.
"You're missing your pencil, aren't you?"
That bell-like voice again. Alice.
I felt her approaching; her energy was like an electric hum, but I was so focused on "my model" that I didn't deign to turn around until she was inches away.
"Mael, what a coincidence," Alice said, popping into my field of vision with a smile that lit up the entire frozen food aisle. "Meet my mother, Esme. Esme, this is the boy I told you about. The one who sees more than he should."
The amber-eyed woman turned and offered me a smile so warm that, for a moment, I forgot her body temperature was likely that of a freezer.
"A pleasure, Mael. Alice says you are an exceptional artist," Esme said. Her voice had a soft texture, like old velvet.
I shot a warning glance at Alice. That girl was dangerous; she moved through life as if she already knew the end of the movie.
"I'm just an observer with too much free time," I replied, trying to recover my mask of indifference. "Alice tends to exaggerate. I was just... analyzing the aisle lighting."
"Don't lie, Mael," Alice laughed, giving me a playful nudge. "You already have Esme's portrait half-finished in your head. I can see it in your eyes. In fact, Esme, he's perfect for what you need."
Esme tilted her head, observing me with genuine curiosity.
"You see, Mael, I'm an architect and I restore old houses. Right now, I'm working on a project for a rather... peculiar family. They want something more 'human' in the renovation sketches, something that captures the essence of a home before it's built. Alice insists your style is unique. If you surprise me with a sketch of how you imagine a space that is warm yet elegant, the job of project illustrator is yours."
I fell silent for a second. Work. Drawing. Money for more art supplies. But it meant interacting. Alice stepped in front of me, blocking my path with a challenging and amused gaze.
"Do it, Mael. I know you're dying to draw something that isn't a history map or Mike Newton with a dog face," Alice teased. "Besides, if it turns out perfect—and it will—you might start seeing our world from a closer perspective."
I looked at Esme. She seemed like a woman who appreciated order and aesthetics as much as I did. It was a challenge, and I don't usually turn down challenges involving a pencil.
"I accept," I said, turning back to my shopping list as if it were the most important thing in the world. "But I don't promise the result will be 'human.' My interpretation of warmth usually includes a lot of shadows."
"That is exactly what I'm looking for," Esme concluded with a final elegance. "Alice will give you the details on Monday."
After watching them walk away, I stood static for a moment in front of the jam shelf. Esme's presence had left a trail of artificial calm in the aisle, as if the air had become denser and quieter in her wake. I shook my head to dispel the effect; I had a list to finish and my social battery was crying for help after that unexpected encounter.
I reviewed Bella's list. In addition to the basics, I decided we needed a reward system to survive the Forks humidity: homemade cookies. Not the boxed ones that taste like sweet cardboard, but the real deal.
I moved through the aisles with mechanical, efficient movements. I tossed bread flour, unsalted butter (the real stuff, not that margarine that looks like spreadable plastic), pure vanilla extract, and an industrial amount of dark chocolate chips into the cart. I also grabbed walnuts and a bag of brown sugar for 그hat mellow touch that keeps the centers soft. To me, cooking was like drawing: a matter of proportions, textures, and patience. If I followed the rules of culinary chemistry, the result would be predictable and perfect, just the way I liked it.
Passing through the supermarket's stationery section—which was quite mediocre, by the way—I ended up buying a couple of cheap sketchbooks. They weren't high quality, but they would serve for the drafts of Esme's project. I didn't want to ruin my main sketchbook with architectural floor plans before I was sure of what I was looking for.
Back at the house, the sound of rain against the roof became the metronome of my afternoon. Bella was in the living room, attempting to read a book but glancing out the window every two minutes with that "I'm waiting for the world to end or for Edward Cullen to appear in my garden" expression.
"I brought reinforcements," I told her, setting the bags on the counter.
"Did you get the shampoo I asked for?" she asked, coming over to peer into the bags.
"Yes. And also materials so you don't die of emotional starvation. I'm making cookies."
Her eyes lit up for a second. I knew my cookies were her weakness.
I put on an apron and took over the kitchen. The process was almost meditative. The sound of the whisk against the bowl, the aroma of softened butter mixing with sugar, the crunch of walnuts being chopped... it was my way of processing what Alice had told me. "Jasper says being near you is like walking into a soundproofed room."
I stared at the dough for a moment. What did that mean? Did I hide my feelings and emotions so deeply that people thought something was wrong with me? It didn't worry me; in fact, I found it practical. Being an emotional blind spot was a tactical advantage in a town full of curious people.
As the cookies baked, the scent of chocolate and vanilla began to invade every corner of Charlie's house. It was a violent contrast to the smell of dampness from outside. I pulled out the first tray and let them cool just long enough for the chocolate to remain molten but the base to be firm.
With a glass of cold milk and a plate of fresh cookies, I went up to my room. I opened one of the new notebooks. I had to design a "human" space for Esme, but my mind kept returning to that marble paleness and those amber eyes.
I began to draw a living room with immense windows overlooking a misty forest. But instead of making it cold, I added an oversized stone fireplace, heavy-textured rugs, and bookshelves that reached the ceiling. It was a blend of what the Cullens were—ethereal and distant—and what Esme seemed to represent: a home.
I drew a rustic wooden table in the center, stained with what could be remnants of blueprints or sketches. In one corner, almost imperceptibly, I drew a small figure reminiscent of a pixie peering through a window.
I closed the notebook. I had my sweet reserves for the week and the start of a project that, for some reason, made me feel more connected to Forks than I was willing to admit.
Sunday in Forks was a day of absolute silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic dripping of rain on my windowsill. After dispatching my school homework—a necessary waste of time to maintain appearances—and leaving the house spotless, I locked myself in my room. The smell of yesterday's cookies still lingered in the air, but my mind was miles away, lost in the bone structure of Esme Cullen.
I turned on my desk lamp and took out my high-quality drawing pad. I needed to purge these images before Monday hit me with its gray reality.
The first was a pure technical and anatomical exercise. I drew the Esme I saw at the supermarket. A woman of a beauty that hurt, with that caramel-colored wavy hair and the liquid amber gaze. I portrayed her exactly as she was: a perfect porcelain figure, elegant, holding the mundanity of a supermarket aisle as if it were a royal dais. It was a static piece of art, beautiful but distant.
However, when I finished it, I felt something was missing. The technique was perfect, but the soul was under lock and key.
I closed my eyes and remembered what Jessica had let slip amidst the gossip at lunch: "Esme adopted them all... they say she has a heart of gold." Then I remembered the warmth emanating from her in the frozen food aisle—a warmth that wasn't thermal, but spiritual.
And then, the idea hit me like a bolt of white light. A visual epiphany.
I opened a double page. My fingers began to move with a speed that didn't feel like mine. I wasn't going to draw a woman; I was going to draw a Concept.
In the center, I drew Esme sitting on a throne that grew from the roots of an ancient oak. She wasn't a queen; she was Mother Earth. Her face didn't have that cold perfection of the first drawing; now it was full of self-sacrificing happiness, a tenderness that seemed capable of stopping time. Her hands were open, welcoming.
But the detail that made my skin crawl was what I placed around her. I decided to strip the Cullen siblings of their armor of "perfect and dangerous teenagers" and drew them as what they truly were under Esme's care: her children.
Alice, a tiny baby with sprouting fairy wings, curled up in Esme's lap.
Emmett, a robust and laughing baby, playing with a small bear cub at the foot of her chair.
Rosalie, a little one wrapped in silk blankets, with an expression of peace she never showed at school.
Jasper, a baby sleeping soundly, finally free from the tension of the war that usually surrounded him.
Edward, resting his small head against Esme's knee, eyes closed as if he had finally found a place where the noise of the world went silent.
It was an image of pure, protected vulnerability. Wildflowers bloomed from the edges of Esme's dress, entwining with the little Cullens, uniting them all in a circle of love that defied their predatory nature.
When I set the pencil down, my fingers ached. I stared at the drawing for a long time. It was strange, almost too intimate. I had captured something they likely tried to hide from the world: that behind the facade of perfection and mystery, they were a family supported by the heart of that woman.
I felt a mixture of pride and a slight pang of doubt. Would Esme like seeing herself this way? Or would Alice laugh at seeing Emmett as a baby bear? Either way, the drawing was done. The "Swan Show" was about to become a private exhibition of gothic and familial art.
I let out a long sigh, feeling the weight of exhaustion in my charcoal-stained fingers. I knew I couldn't just hand over these torn pages from a spiral notebook. If I was going to show them how I saw them, I had to do it with the same precision they used to maintain their facade.
I stood up and searched my closet for my professional portfolio—the stiff black leather one I only used for my finished pieces. First, I sprayed both drawings with a fixative so the graphite wouldn't smudge or lose its sharpness; the chemical smell flooded my room for a second before dissipating under the outside rain.
Once dry, I looked for acid-free tissue paper.
The first drawing, the Esme from the supermarket, I placed with extreme care. It represented what the world saw: perfection.
The second, the "Mother Earth" and the Cullen babies, I double-wrapped. It was something more... personal. I almost felt like I was handing over a secret they didn't know they had.
I closed the portfolio with a metallic "click" that sounded definitive in the silence of the night. I tucked it into my backpack, making sure it lay flat against the back so it wouldn't suffer even the slightest crease.
"Tomorrow," I whispered, turning off the lamp.
I stayed for a moment in the dark, listening to Bella's steady breathing in the next room and the roar of the wind in the pines. Tomorrow I would hand Alice not just a commission for her mother, but a window into my own mind.
Tomorrow wouldn't just bring the cold of the ice as the news predicted; it would bring the Cullens' response to my interpretation of their existence. And something told me that after seeing that drawing, Alice would never look at me as just "the new kid who draws" again.