Kai lingered at the corner on the opposite side of the street now, shoulders dipped slightly under his coat, a hand grasping idly at the strap of the tiny travelling bag slung over his shoulder. He wasn't quite certain why he hadn't gone any further. The gallery wasn't even listed in his plans. But something had drawn him along this street. A name perhaps. A shape in the throng. The faraway smell of linseed oil and remembrance.
A cluster of travelers went by, blocking the window from sight. When they departed, nothing occupied the place behind the glass. The form he imagined seeing—vanished. Likely his brain. His shame. His desperation lying to him.
Inside, Noah had walked further into the gallery, glass abandoned on a pedestal. He gazed at another painting now. This one more abstract. Colors ripped across canvas like open wounds. It was newer. More violent. Something he hadn't exposed publicly until now.
