"You're smiling," Maya observed. "That particular smile. The one that means you're thinking about him."
"I'm not—" I started, and then laughed, because of course I was. "Fine. Maybe a little."
"It's disgusting. In the best way." She set down her brush and stretched, her spine cracking audibly. "Kostya and I were like that in the beginning. Couldn't think about anything else. Now I think about other things sometimes. Usually still him, though."
The warmth in her voice when she talked about Konstantin was its own kind of art. Luminous. That was the word. The way love could light someone up from the inside.
I wondered if I looked like that too.
My phone buzzed against the carpet.
I almost ignored it. The Little space was too comfortable, the paint too satisfying between my fingers, the afternoon too perfect to interrupt with whatever the outside world wanted. Probably a text from Maks checking in. Or a notification from the forum, someone responding to my post about identifying synthetic aging in forged documents.
But my eyes caught the preview anyway.
"Gallery representation inquiry."
My heart stopped.
Actually stopped—or felt like it did. That particular arrest of the organ, the suspension of everything, while my brain tried to process words that didn't make sense together. Gallery. Representation. Inquiry.
Someone was asking about representing me.
Someone who didn't know me. Someone who had just . . . found me.
"Auralia?" Maya's voice came from far away. "You okay? You just went white."
I couldn't answer. Couldn't move. Could only stare at the notification preview like it might disappear if I blinked, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less impossible.
Gallery representation inquiry.
My hands were shaking. My thumb hovered over the notification. Paint smeared across the screen—cadmium yellow, the ghost of Maya's sunset—and I should have wiped it first, should have been careful, but my hands wouldn't listen.
"Auralia?" Maya's voice was sharper now. Concerned. "What is it?"
I opened the email.
The words swam for a moment, my brain too full of static to process them. Then they sharpened. Focused. Became individual letters and sentences that meant something real.
Dear Ms. Hart,
My name is Elena Voss, and I represent the Voss-Laurent Gallery in Chelsea. We specialize in emerging artists with distinctive voices and emotionally resonant work.
I recently discovered your portfolio through your website and was immediately struck by your portrait work—particularly the piece you titled "Lis." The intimacy of the brushwork, the way you've captured not just likeness but essence, is extraordinary. Your use of light is luminous. Your emotional depth is arresting.
I believe you have something special. Something that deserves to be seen.
I would very much like to meet with you to discuss potential representation and, if our conversation goes well, the possibility of a solo exhibition in our spring collection.
Please respond at your earliest convenience. I look forward to hearing from you.
Warmest regards,
Elena Voss
The words blurred.
Not from confusion this time. From tears. They were spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them, hot and sudden, painting tracks through whatever remained of the morning's careful composure.
