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The Last Corner
Amir wanted the last corner of the ceiling white before the light went. The hall smelled of paint. A sheet covered the piano. His sister Noor was washing brushes in a bucket by the door, and the water had gone the color of milk.
"Leave it," she said. "We can finish in the morning."
Amir shook his head. His neck hurt from looking up, and his right shoulder had a deep, hot ache. He knew that ache. It came when he reached too far, and it grew if he pretended it was nothing. He still wanted the clean corner. A bare patch would show when people walked in, and he hated the thought of it.
He moved the ladder. It wobbled, then stood firm. He climbed with the brush in his left hand, because the right one felt slow.