"Or couldn't take it with them. When the wall fell, when everything changed, maybe they had to leave too fast."
She photographs the toy in place, then sketches it from multiple angles. The way it sits alone in the empty apartment, a reminder that real people lived here once.
"This is what I want to capture," she says. "Not just the end, but the humanity underneath it. The proof that people were here, that they mattered."
"You're doing that. Every piece shows it."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
We work through the complex for three hours. By the time we leave, Roxy has eleven new pieces – photographs and drawings of the brutalist architecture, the abandoned apartments, the wooden horse, the way humanity persists even in death.
Back at our Berlin apartment, we spread all the work across the floor. Twenty-five pieces total. The hospital, the factory, thecemetery, the Soviet complex. Each one showing a different facet of decomposing, each one beautiful in its darkness.
"This is the second portfolio," Roxy says, studying the work. "This is what comes next."
"It's good. Really good."
"Better than the first?"
"Different. More mature, like you're finding meaning in it."
She looks up at me, her eyes bright. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
I pull her into my lap and she settles against me, both of us looking at the work spread before us.
We make love slowly that night, surrounded by the work, celebrating what we've built together. Not just the art, but the partnership. The understanding that we're stronger together than we ever were alone.
By the time we leave Berlin, the second portfolio is complete. Twenty-five pieces ready for the next phase, the next exhibition, the next step in building something sustainable from our shared darkness.
"Six months," Roxy says on the flight back to San Diego. "Then we release the second portfolio."
"Same strategy?"
"Exactly. Anonymous submission, remote communication. The mystery continues."
She rests her head on my shoulder, understanding that we've found something rare, a way to be exactly who we are while staying invisible.
And no one knowing the truth except us.
……………..
The flight back to San Diego is long.
Roxy sleeps most of the way, her head on my shoulder, her hand laced with mine. I watch her sleep and think about the last three months.
New York. Berlin. The international circuit expanding.
Detective Chen investigating but hitting walls.
The mystery growing, the theories multiplying.
RB is becoming more valuable with each exhibition, each failed attempt to identify the artist. We're building something sustainable. And no one can touch us.
When we land in San Diego, there's an email waiting from Sarah Vance.
Galleries in Miami, LA, and Tokyo have expressed interest in RB’s work. Would you be open to discussing a broader international circuit?
