Beyond His Walls

The vehicle slowed as we turned onto a quiet street lined with trees and modest, well-maintained houses. I had spent most of the journey looking through the window, trying to take in the unfamiliar surroundings while wondering what I would find at the end of the drive. Alexander had told me the residence was separate from his home, but he hadn’t explained much beyond that, and I hadn’t wanted to question him too closely.

When he stopped in front of a two-storey house with pale walls and a small garden, I looked at it for a moment before reaching for my bag. It wasn’t the kind of enormous property I had grown accustomed to seeing at the Martins’ estate. The entrance was welcoming, the windows were wide, and a neat pathway led from the gate to the front door.

“Is this where I’ll be staying?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s a private residence I have available. The house is already taken care of, so you won’t have to worry about arranging anything tonight.”

He reached for my bag, but when I held out my hand, he passed it to me without argument. After unlocking the door, he stepped aside and allowed me to enter first.

The sitting room was simply furnished, with a comfortable sofa, a coffee table and a bookshelf against one wall. Beyond it was a dining area connected to a kitchen, while a staircase led to the upper floor. Everything was clean and well-kept, although the house was much quieter than the Martins’ mansion.

Alexander showed me the kitchen, where I could prepare something whenever I wanted, and then led me upstairs to a bedroom at the end of the hallway. It had a large window overlooking the garden, a wardrobe, a neatly made bed and an adjoining bathroom.

“This room is yours,” he explained as I placed my bag beside the wardrobe. “You can arrange things however you like. No one will enter your room without your permission, and you can lock the door whenever you want.”

I looked around again, taking in the quiet room and the thought that I could finally have a space of my own. “What if I need something?”

“You can call me. I’ll send my number to your phone, along with the number for the person who maintains the property. You don’t have to wait for me to come here if there’s something you need taken care of.”

He took out his phone and sent me both numbers before returning it to his pocket.

The way he explained everything made the arrangement easier to accept, although I still felt uncomfortable with how much he was doing for me.

“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know how I’m going to repay you for all this.”

“You don’t have to repay me, Sophie. You asked for help, and I offered it. That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

I lowered my eyes, unsure how to respond. I had spent so long being reminded of what my presence cost the Millers and what I supposedly owed Arthur’s family that accepting help without expecting a demand in return felt unfamiliar.

He reminded me that there was food in the kitchen and that I could contact him if I needed anything before leaving me to settle in.

When the door closed behind him, I remained where I was for a moment, listening to his footsteps disappear down the stairs. The silence felt different from the one I had known at the Martins’ estate. There, quietness had never meant I could relax because someone could summon me, question me or enter my room whenever they pleased. Here, nobody was waiting for me to do anything.

I placed my bag on the bed and began unpacking. My clothes went into the wardrobe, while I placed my documents inside one of the drawers. I counted the money I had saved before putting it away, reminding myself that I still had something of my own. It wasn’t enough to support me indefinitely, but it meant I wasn’t starting with nothing, and I wanted to be careful about how I used it.

When I reached my sketchbook, I paused.

The worn cover brought back memories of the attic, where I used to hide whenever I could find a little time for myself. Drawing had once been the one thing I could enjoy without worrying about what anyone thought. Even after marrying Arthur, I had tried to hold on to that part of myself, keeping my supplies hidden and finding moments to draw whenever the house allowed me some privacy.

I placed the sketchbook on the bedside table and took out a few pencils. Then I moved towards the window, where I could see the small garden and the trees beyond the fence. A breeze stirred the leaves, and the morning light fell across the grass in uneven patches.

I opened to a clean page and began sketching the view.

At first, I struggled to get the lines right. I erased a line, adjusted the shape of a branch and tried again, but gradually I became absorbed in the details. I paid attention to the way the branches overlapped and how the shadows stretched across the garden. Before long, I had stopped thinking about the journey, the mansion or the people I had left behind.

When I finally looked at the page, I found myself smiling faintly. The drawing wasn’t perfect, but I liked it. More importantly, I had wanted to draw it simply because I could.

A gentle knock interrupted me.

“Come in,” I called, remembering that I was the one who had to give permission.

Alexander opened the door only after hearing my response. His gaze moved briefly to the sketchbook before returning to me.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“Not yet. I was unpacking.”

“I can arrange something, or you can use the kitchen if you’d rather prepare it yourself.”

“I’ll have something later. Thank you.”

He nodded, then glanced at the drawing. “You started again.”

I looked down at the page. “I suppose I did.”

“You seemed comfortable drawing at the luncheon. I wondered whether you’d had a chance to use the supplies I sent.”

“I have. I just haven’t had much time to do anything with them.”

“Would you like to have more opportunities to work on your art?”

The question caught my attention. I set the pencil down and turned towards him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the creative development initiative I told you about when we met at the luncheon? The one connected to the technology programme my family supports?”

I nodded. That was where he had first noticed my drawing and asked whether I had studied art. It was also where he had given me his card after I explained that I was self-taught and didn’t have the materials I needed.

“There’s an upcoming opportunity connected to the initiative,” he continued. “They’re preparing a programme for emerging artists, with an exhibition where selected participants can display their work. There will also be opportunities to attend workshops and meet people working in different areas of art.”

I looked at him with growing interest. “Would I be allowed to apply?”

“Applications are open to people who meet the requirements. You would need to submit some examples of your work, and the organisers would decide which artists to select.”

My excitement faded slightly as I considered the possibility of having my drawings examined by people who knew far more about art than I did.

“I’ve never shown my work to anyone,” I admitted. “Most of the drawings I’ve made have only been for myself.”

“Then this could be an opportunity to find out what other people think of them. It doesn’t mean you have to apply, though. You can look at the requirements first and decide whether it’s something you want.”

I appreciated that he hadn’t immediately offered to arrange everything for me. I wanted help, but I also wanted to know that whatever happened next would be something I had chosen and worked towards myself.

“Could you send me the information?” I asked.

“Of course. I’ll forward the application details when I get back.”

“Thank you, Alexander.”

He gave me a brief nod before leaving me to my drawing again.

I returned to the window and studied the sketchbook, turning through several pages until I found a drawing I had made with one of the pencils from the supplies Alexander had sent me. It showed a woman standing beside an open window, looking towards the light outside. I had drawn it without thinking too much about what it meant, but now I found myself looking at it differently.

I wondered whether it was good enough to show someone else. There were parts I could improve, and I could already see a few lines I would have liked to work on again. Still, I didn’t want to keep every drawing hidden simply because I was afraid of what people might say.

I marked the page with a small slip of paper so I could find it again. Then I picked up my phone and sent Alexander a message.

I’d like to see the application details when you have a chance. I think I want to give it a try.

I read the message once before sending it, then set the phone aside and looked at the marked page again.

I didn’t know whether my work would be selected, or whether I would be good enough to stand among people who had studied art for years. But I had decided to give myself the opportunity to find out.

For the first time, I was making plans that had nothing to do with leaving someone else’s house. I was beginning to think about what I could build in my own life, and the thought no longer felt impossible.