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Hope pursed her lips, not really satisfied by Hayley's response but not really knowing what else to say. On one hand, she understood, sort of. It was strange. In all of Rebekah's stories, her father had been the stalwart, charismatic king who always knew what to say and do to bring his enemies to his knees. He exuded confidence and power in a way that no one dared to cross him, but those were just stories. The real Klaus still held all of the complexities that any person had, the ones that couldn't really be distilled into a simple bedtime story told to little tribrids.
So she took a bite of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the comforting taste hitting her tongue as she trailed after Hayley down the hall, and she devoured the sandwich in four bites once her stomach got the clue. Her feet slowed as they reached a cracked door, and Hope couldn't help but poke her head around her mother to peer into the room. She couldn't stop the soft gasp that came out, and her eyes grew round as she took in his studio.
Hope smiled shyly at the offer, a hint of pink blooming in her cheeks as she slowly stepped into the room, tentative like a curious puppy. But instead of turning his back like he'd done before, her father beckoned her closer and Hope finally closed the gap between them. She looked up at him, and for a moment just stared at his face, still like he might disappear in front of her. Now that she finally knew what it was like to be near her parents, she wasn't sure she would be able to let go of them again.
She reached out to pick up a slender brush, the wood feeling solid and worn under her hands, and turned her gaze to the blank canvas. A million images flashed through her mind of what she could paint. As always, there wasn't one conscious thought that drove her as she began to draw the beginnings of a small clearing, with a few stumps that were perfect for sitting on, and a swing that hung from a sturdy branch. The front yard of the home where she'd lived with Rebekah. There were many more details that needed to be filled in, and Hope felt a pang of sadness as she slowed her brush strokes, looking at the depiction of the house she'd never get to go back to.
"I don't know about Banksy but..." she said with a self-deprecating chuckle. She had seen the portraits downstairs, knew that her father's skills far surpassed hers, but he had a headstart on her. "Ta-da?" / @crescentmoonqueen