I chew my bagel and turn it over in my mind. It's a strange thing to do—not threatening, not intrusive, just strange. Like finding a gift on your doorstep from someone who didn't leave a note.
I don't love mysteries. I grew up in the system, and the system taught me to pay attention to things that don't add up. Not because every unexplained thing is dangerous—most aren't—but because noticing is a habit that's kept me safe, and I don't see the point in unlearning it.
So I notice. I file it. And I go back to work, because the sculpture isn't going to finish itself and the show is in six weeks and I don't have time to chase a mystery that's probably nothing.
The afternoon disappears into the piece. I weld and grind and shape, and the ribs grow taller, thinner, more delicate. The gap at the top is still open—still unresolved—and I still don't know what to do with it. Close it and the piece becomes a cage. Leave it open and it becomes something more vulnerable. More honest.
More frightening.
I work until the light outside is gone and the fluorescents are the only thing between me and darkness. The hand sculpture gets attention too—I clean up the wire base, refine the fingers, add a texture to the wrist that suggests effort, strain. The hand isn't just reaching. It's climbing. Fighting its way toward something it can see but can't quite touch.
At ten, Tess calls. I can hear music in the background, laughter.
"Tell me you ate something today."
"Cal brought bagels."
"Cal is a saint and you don't deserve him. How's the piece?"
"Getting there." I sit on the crate and pull my knees up, the phone warm against my ear. "I'm scared, Tess."
The admission surprises me. I don't usually say things like that out loud. But it's late, and I'm tired, and Tess is the only person in the world I don't have to perform strength for.
"Of course you're scared," she says, and her voice goes soft in that way that always undoes me. "You're about to show people the inside of your chest. That's terrifying. It's supposed to be terrifying."
"What if they don't get it?"
"Some won't. Some will. The ones who do are the ones who matter." She pauses. "Your work is extraordinary, Jess. I'm not saying that because I'm your friend. I'm saying it because I'm a painter and I know what I'm looking at. You just have to let people see it."
My eyes sting. I press the heel of my hand against them and take a breath. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just finish the piece and don't chicken out." Her voice brightens. "Also, I'm bringing you a dress for opening night. Before you argue—it's not fancy. It's just something that isn't covered in welding burns."
"I have clothes that aren't covered in welding burns."
"Name one."
I open my mouth and close it. She has a point.
"That's what I thought. Love you. Go home and sleep."
After she hangs up, I clean my tools and pull on my jacket. The studio feels different at night—quieter, but not empty. The sculpture stands in the center like a living thing, its ribs casting long shadows on the brick walls. I look at it for a moment and feel that warmth again, that hum of something being right. It's not done. But it's becoming.
I pull the cargo door down, test the latch. Solid. Sure. I still don't know who fixed it.
The walk home is cold. Same streets, same route, same stretch of dark pavement between streetlights where you navigate by memory and the sound of your own footsteps.
Halfway home, I stop.
Not because of anything I see. The street behind me is empty—parked cars, closed shopfronts, a cat picking its way along a fence. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.
But there's a feeling. Below thought, below language. A weight in the air behind me, like someone standing just outside the edge of my vision. The same sensation I had at the studio with the latch—that whisper of wrongness, faint as a pulse.
I turn around slowly.
Nothing. No one.
I stand there for a long moment, scanning the street the way I learned to scan rooms as a kid. Doorways, parked cars, the dark gaps between buildings. My keys are in my hand, threaded between my fingers.
