I made coffee in my tiny kitchen and burned it because I got distracted watching the steam curl up from the mug like it was trying to escape. I ate a piece of bread standing at the counter and checked my phone even though I’d told myself I wouldn’t.
No new texts. No unknown number. No message that said,I found you after.
Of course, not.
The ridiculous part of me—the part I pretended didn’t exist—felt disappointed, anyway.
I spent the morning at the residency, trying to throw myself into work like work had ever been a reliable form of self-control.
The warehouse was bright with light, cool enough that my fingertips ached until the radiator finally clicked on. Peopledrifted in slowly, still half-asleep, still holding themselves at that cautious distance artists seemed to prefer. I set up my prints on the wall, rearranging them twice, then three times, pretending I couldn’t tell I was stalling.
Amaya Delgado arrived with her usual aura of nonchalance, a scarf looped around her neck, hair damp like she’d showered in a hurry. She lifted a hand in greeting.
“You look tired,” she said in accented English.
“I’m adjusting,” I replied, which was what I’d started saying anytime I didn’t want to admit the truth.
She eyed me for a beat, then nodded as if she understood exactly what I meant. “Paris is … demanding.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She smiled, slow and knowing. “Did you stay long last night?”
My stomach tightened. “You saw me?”
“Everyone saw you,” she said, and then, when I stiffened, she added, “Not like that. Just … you were there. New people are always noticed.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I left early.”
“But something happened,” she said, like it was an observation, not a question.
My cheeks warmed. “What makes you say that?”
Amaya shrugged. “Your eyes are loud today.”
I snorted despite myself. “That’s unsettling.”
She laughed and walked away, leaving me to stare at my prints and wonder if my face had betrayed me more than once.
Luc Fournier wandered past, headphones still on, coffee in hand. He glanced at my work with the kind of quick appraisal that felt both dismissive and unnervingly accurate.
“You like doors,” he said in French.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
He pulled one headphone off. “Les portes,” he repeated, slower, pointing at the images on my wall. “You take many doors.”
“Oh.” I glanced at the photos. A door cracked open. A hallway. A shadow beneath a threshold. “I guess, I do.”
He studied me for a second, then put his headphones back on. “Doors mean choice,” he said, and walked off as if he hadn’t just dropped a line that made my skin prickle.
Choice.
That word had haunted me since the night before. The way Connor had looked at me when I said he’d been following me. The way he’d saidcoincidencelike he knew exactly how much truth he was allowed to give.
And the way he’d asked if he could come find me after. Like my answer mattered.
Élodie arrived just before noon, her presence making the room feel more organized without her doing anything at all. She wore a black coat, her hair pinned back, mouth unsmiling. When she entered, people straightened unconsciously, like they’d been reminded that they were being watched by someone who could actually see.
