ARIA'S POV
Thirty three days.
I wasn't trying to count. It just happened the way breathing happens, automatic, underneath everything else. I used to track other things. The days until our anniversary. How long between Flynn's work trips. Gallery opening countdowns marked in my planner with small stars.
Now I counted survival days. Morrison Street coffee and a radiator that screamed at 3 AM and the slow uncomfortable education of my own company.
I was getting better at it. Some days.
Elena Vasquez arrived on a Tuesday morning and immediately ignored the front desk.
She's an abstract painter, fifty-five, recently widowed, considering the gallery for her first solo show since her husband died. He'd shown me photos of her work. Large canvases, mostly. Color laid down in thick deliberate
