The invitation came in the form of a short message on a scrap of sketching paper slipped under the door of Edwina's gallery.
"Come to my studio at 4 PM. The light is perfect right now for painting honesty." –J.S.
His handwriting was cursive, typical of old-school artists, in thick black ink. No emojis, no digital pleasantries. Just a raw invitation that made my stomach churn with nerves.
"Go on," Edwina urged when I showed her the paper. She was rearranging small sculptures in the display window. "The gallery’s quiet anyway. I’ll hold the fort."
"But, Edwina, I'm not ready," I deflected. "I mean... an artist's studio? Isn't that super personal? What if he..."
"What if he what?" Edwina cut in, a teasing eyebrow raised. "Tries something? Julian Stolk is so polite it's frustrating, Cel.
