Previously on Saving Grace: He didn’t know that all of this — all of them — might all be inside her head.

She had thought about it on the way back, pondering just how much of what she remembered from after the jump was real. If she had really jumped, there was a good possibility that she was in a hospital somewhere and this …This was her hallucination? A dream? Either way, it was a vivid one.

Everything up until she had spoken to Connor at the bridge had felt real — it still did. Only now, she was left questioning what was really going on.

“I’m thinking about painting again,” she murmured, remembering Connor saying that she needed to paint. What did he want her to paint? He had not been clear on his answer and it was beginning to drive her insane. “Not like with the float,” she added quickly, before Sam could open his mouth to speak. “On a canvas. I want to make my own art again.”

Sam swallowed, shaking his head in response. “You haven’t painted in years.”

Piper, however, had perked up a little more with the word “paint,” tilting her head to one side. A certain light that had not been there before had sprung back into her eyes.

“I know, but I used to love it, didn’t I? I know I did. I want — I need to paint again.” Something Connor had said, about fixing this. Maybe it could help Piper. Maybe … maybe it would help her find some answers. Maybe she would find a way home.

“You could paint me,” the voice was soft, but Sam and Grace looked over to Piper. She had spoken! “Please paint me, OK?” A little louder now, as if she had gained back some of the confidence she had lost after the attack.

Grace nodded, standing up to scavenge through her closet, finding the supplies she had always had on hand but had never intended on using. Like the days she walked into an art store and couldn’t help but buy canvas and paints with the knowledge that she did not have the confidence to pick up the paintbrush, to add color to the white canvas.

Yes, a part of Grace had never given up on her painting. A part of her still yearned for the familiar feeling of a brush in her hand, creating what she saw in her mind onto the white canvas in front of her.

“Of course,” she answered, nodding again, faster now, her hands shaking, itching to pick up the brush. Muscle memory. She had never forgotten — she had only left it for a while. She was going to paint. She was going to paint Piper’s portrait.

Behind her, Sam stood, tossing his plate into the garbage, before walking past her to the door. “You two will be busy,” he explained, leaving the room after telling them to “have fun.” Then it was just her and Piper, like old times.