Lena Larke wanted to paint the whole west wall of the motel lobby, but her tools were made for watches. She spread her kit across the folding table where she fixed timepieces for guests. Tiny screwdrivers. A loupe. Two brushes no wider than an eyelash. She had already sketched the mural in her head. A boy. A truck fire. A hand pulling someone free. Every scar on her knuckles belonged somewhere on that wall. But she could not paint a story that size with a brush meant for a watch face. She closed the kit and walked out past the sun-bleached MOTEL sign. Down the road stood a hardware store with peeling metal trim and faded lettering. She had passed it for years without going in. Today she needed rollers, wide brushes, and paint by the gallon. A woman blocked the entrance. She wore a rumpled cashier's uniform and had not slept in days. Her eyes were red at the rims. She held up a crumpled photo before Lena could speak. "Have you seen him?" the woman asked. "His name is written on the back." Lena studied the photo. A young man, laughing, squinting at the sun. She did not know him. "I'm sorry," Lena said. "I haven't." The woman's shoulders dropped. She lowered the photo but did not move aside. "Clara," she said, tapping her own chest. "I can't leave. If I leave and he comes back, I'll miss him." Lena looked past her into the dark store. Dusty shelves. A silent register. No other customer in sight. "I need paint," Lena said. "Brushes. Rollers. Enough to cover a wall." Clara laughed, short and tired. "Nobody's minded the counter in two days. I stopped counting stock." She glanced back at the shelves. "But I know where the paint is. My father stocked it." Lena weighed the moment. The woman needed something more than a sale. "Show me what you have," Lena said, "and I'll help you look for him after. I'm here every day at the motel." Clara stared at her, testing the promise. Then she stepped aside. She led Lena down a narrow aisle and pointed to cans stacked to the ceiling. White. A dozen colors gone dry and a dozen still good. Lena pried a lid loose. The paint inside was thick but usable. She gathered four wide brushes, two rollers, and six gallons. Clara rang each one by hand, slow, her eyes drifting to the door between every item. Lena paid and hauled the load out to the road. Back at the motel, she lined the cans against the west wall. She had her tools now. She dipped a wide brush and dragged the first white stroke across the plaster. It covered a foot in one pass. The wall was ready. But she had made a promise to a stranger. And she did not know how she would keep it.