Had she felt seen?
I bought the book without overthinking it.
Outside again, sunlight felt brighter. Warmer.
Alive.
My next stop came from another small discovery—an art supply bag tucked in Rose’s closet, filled with charcoal sticks and sketchpads. Not new. Used. Smudged.
A folded brochure inside the bag led me to a small gallery across the river.
The place was quiet when I entered, footsteps echoing faintly on polished concrete floors. Minimalist white walls, large canvases hung with deliberate spacing. Most abstract. Somestartlingly intimate—figures half-formed, bodies suggested instead of fully revealed.
One piece stopped me.
A woman leaning against a window, back to the viewer. Bare shoulders, soft light outlining the curve of her waist. Not explicit, but undeniably sensual. Vulnerable in the way nudity sometimes was.
The plaque listed a local artist’s name.
And beneath it, handwritten:
Private figure study sessions available.
Heat spread slowly through my chest.
Rose had come here. Had watched someone capture bodies in charcoal and paint. Had maybe sat in a room where strangers undressed without shame, letting artists study the lines of their skin.
The idea felt both shocking and … freeing.
I tried to picture myself doing that—stripping in front of strangers, allowing someone to look at me not politely, not clinically, but hungrily. Appreciatively.
My stomach tightened.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
Hank, kissing me goodnight in our apartment hallway, careful and predictable. Hands always respectful. Never urgent. Never needy.
Ugh.
I’d convinced myself safety was enough.
But standing here, imagining Rose here, I felt something shift. A quiet certainty that safety had been the problem in our family.
Maybe she’d found something that made her feel wanted instead of merely appreciated.
I left before the thought could deepen, stepping back into cool air, cheeks warm.
My next stop came almost accidentally.
A florist’s shop, bursting with color, stopped me mid-step. Buckets of flowers spilled onto the sidewalk—peonies, tulips, roses in every shade imaginable.
Rose loved fresh flowers. Always had.
I stepped inside, inhaling deeply.
A young man behind the counter greeted me, then switched easily into English when my response faltered. I asked, clumsily, if he remembered an American woman who came often. Blonde wavy hair, bright laugh.
His face lit up.
