Edwina's art gallery, Het Oog (The Eye), was located on the corner of the artsy Witte de Withstraat. It wasn't a massive gallery displaying billion-rupiah masterpieces, but an intimate space showcasing the works of contemporary local artists. Its brick walls were painted a clean white, the wooden floor creaked softly when stepped on, and the scent of oil paint mixed with coffee from the cafe next door always filled the room.
I had been helping Edwina look after this gallery every Tuesday and Thursday for two months now. It was part of the "real-life therapy" Matthew suggested.
"So you can meet people, Cel. Don't just talk to the canvas in your room," he'd said.
That afternoon, heavy rain was pouring down in Rotterdam. The previously clear sky suddenly turned dark gray, dumping water tha
