The Art Club's Prophecy

The late afternoon sun was the best part of being in the Art Club. It filtered through the large, grid-paned windows, casting long, amber rectangles across the scuffed hardwood floor and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. Outside, the courtyard was a blur of students hurrying home, but inside Room 204—home to the "Art Club, Est. 2021," as the wooden sign proudly proclaimed—time seemed to stand still.Maya sat on her usual stool, her knees pulled up slightly, balancing her spiral sketchbook against her cozy cream sweater. She tapped her pencil against the enamel Art Club pin on her chest, her brow furrowed in concentration. For three days, she hadn't been able to stop thinking about a dream she'd had. It was hazy, filled with swirling colors and a deep, resonant feeling of belonging. The only clear detail she could remember was a specific pattern of stars.