The warm breeze gently stirred the leaves of the oak tree Wren sat under. Sunlight filtered through the branches, creating soft patterns of light and shadow on the ground. Overhead, the sweet melodies of songbirds filled the air, adding a peaceful rhythm to the quiet afternoon.
Her hands clutched her old film camera tightly, her fingers adjusting the settings with a kind of focus that made her forget about everything else.
Trey sat down beside her, his sketchbook resting in his lap while his pencil moved across the paper. They didn't need to talk. The silence between them was never awkward, filled instead with the quiet sounds of pencil against paper and the satisfying click of Wren's camera capturing moments through her lens.
Trey sketched her, caught up the way the light caught her features as he sketched her without realizing. Her eyes, though tired, still sparkled with concentration as she raised the camera and took photos of the changing leaves, the texture of the bench.
Unbeknownst to either of them, they were capturing each other—Trey's hand sketching Wren's small frame as she sat there, completely lost in her photography, while Wren's lens quietly focused on him, his brow furrowed in concentration, the pencil in his hand creating something only she could later discover.
It was a simple moment, but in the quiet exchange of creativity, something unspoken passed between them. A shared understanding, perhaps even admiration, that didn't need to be said aloud.