"He kept repainting the same wall as the neighborhood shifted."
Martha makes a small note on her clipboard. "Why that block?"
I take a breath, let it out slow. "It was the first place I'd seen in a long time where people kept choosing to stay."
She's quiet for a moment, eyes moving across the frames. Then she steps back, arms crossed, head tilted.
"It's not about decay," she says. "It's about people who refuses to disappear."
I nod once. "Nicely said."
She doesn't ask me to explain further.
After a moment, she glances at her clipboard again. "I'm looking forward to seeing how people react to this. When will you be here to answer questions?"
I check my watch. "I'll come by after the opening for the League Prize. My girlfriend's showing in that exhibition."
Her mouth curves. "A power couple."
I let out a short laugh. "She's definitely the power part of this couple."
"If her work is stronger than this," Martha says, gesturing at the wall, "I can't wait to see it. She must be brilliant."
"She is."
Martha squeezes my arm once, quick and professional. "Good luck tonight. Both shows."
"Thanks."
She moves on to the next artist's wall, heels clicking away down the corridor.
I turn back to the prints. My name on the title card. The artist statement I fought through every sentence of, now mounted in clean type beside the first frame. The familiar faces meeting my gaze from behind the glass.
My pulse kicks a little harder. This is the work I've hidden the longest. Now it's pinned up under gallery lights, waiting for people I've never met to look at it and decide what it means.
I could stand here all night. Watch people stop, tilt their heads, move closer. See if they get it.
But Sam's opening is first.
I fold the program once, tuck it into my pocket, and head for the corridor.
The noise builds as I get closer—voices layered over each other, the clink of glasses, someone laughing. I follow the League signage down the hall, the low roar getting louder with every step.
At the threshold, I stop.
My hand tightens around the program. My mouth goes dry. The room noise drops under the thud of my own pulse.
The crowd is full of dark suits and black dresses, a sea of charcoal and navy under the gallery lights.
Then I see the white.
A pale column right in the middle of it.
The column turns.
Gold catches the light.
Sam.
