The train ride back felt slower, though the schedule hadn’t changed. The countryside blurred past, soft and distant, but I hardly looked up. The sketchbook sat carefully zipped in the inside of my coat, close enough that I could feel its weight against my ribs. The folded fabric rested in the canvas bag at my feet. It didn’t look like much to anyone else. But I knew what I had been given.

This wasn’t inspiration. This was responsibility.

At one point, I caught my reflection in the ...