Chapter 15 – The Painter’s Vision
998 Words
The afternoon sun slanted across the cobblestone lane, gilding the glass front of a quiet art gallery tucked between two modern cafés. Elias had no reason to stop—he was running late for a meeting, his phone buzzing with reminders—but something in the display window caught him.
A painting.
A woman sat on a stool, her body folded inward. Her face was buried in her hands, dark hair cascading like shadows around trembling shoulders. The light in the artwork was strange—muted and raw, as if the painter had trapped the essence of heartbreak itself.
He took a step closer. The closer he looked, the more certain he became.
He knew that silhouette. The curve of the wrist, the delicate fingers, the faint scar across the knuckle—he’d seen it before.
Mira.
Elias pushed open the gallery door before his mind could stop him. The air inside was tinged with the scent of turpentine and old varnish. Paintings lined the walls—faces, dreams, storms—but his gaze refused to leave the one that had pulled him in.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” a voice said behind him.
Elias turned. An older man stood by an easel, his fingers stained with indigo and ochre. His eyes were tired, but kind.
“Did you paint her?” Elias asked.
The man nodded, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Three months ago.”
“Do you… know her?”
The painter smiled faintly. “No. Not in this life.”
Elias frowned. “Then how—”
“I dreamt her,” the man interrupted softly. “Again and again. A woman crying into her hands. The kind of sorrow that doesn’t belong to words. I thought painting her would set me free of it. But when the piece was finished…” He trailed off, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “…I realized it wasn’t my memory.”
Elias felt a chill trace his spine.
The painter’s gaze held his. “It was yours.”
Elias’s breath hitched. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” The painter tilted his head, studying him. “Sometimes we carry memories we never lived. Or perhaps we share them—two souls connected by what they’ve broken.”
Elias looked back at the painting. Every brushstroke now seemed alive—her sorrow reaching through canvas and color. “You said you dreamt her. What else did you see?”
The old man’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for his tea. “She was searching for someone. Always walking, calling a name I couldn’t hear. But there was one thing she said clearly.”
“What?”
The painter met his eyes, and his voice dropped to a whisper.
“She said, ‘He will find me when I no longer want to be found.’”
Elias’s pulse quickened.
“She looks for you,” the painter murmured. “And she fears you will break what little of her heart remains.”
The words landed like stones in Elias’s chest. He hadn’t told anyone about Mira—about the fight, the silence, the way she’d vanished into the noise of the city weeks ago. He had searched, half out of guilt, half out of a longing he couldn’t explain.
“How could you know any of this?” Elias demanded, his voice rough.
The painter smiled sadly. “Artists see what others bury. And sometimes, the heart paints before the mind understands.”
Elias stared again at the painting. The longer he looked, the more he saw—small details that only he should know. The silver ring on her right hand. The faint burn mark near her wrist from a forgotten cooking experiment. It wasn’t just resemblance. It was her.
He reached out, fingers almost brushing the surface. The paint was still faintly textured, the dried ridges of emotion immortalized.
“I tried to sell it once,” the painter said quietly. “But no one wanted it. They said it made them sad. That her grief was too heavy.”
“Maybe that’s because it’s real,” Elias murmured.
“Then tell me,” the painter asked softly, “why does she cry?”
Elias swallowed hard. He didn’t have an answer.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. Clouds gathered above the glass roof, casting a gray hue over the gallery. The painting seemed to darken with it, Mira’s shadow deepening in the dim light.
Elias turned away, his throat tight. “I should go.”
The painter nodded, though his expression was unreadable. “You can try,” he said. “But she won’t let you. Not until you understand what broke her.”
Elias paused at the door. “And what if it was me?”
The painter’s reply was almost a whisper. “Then it’s time you start painting too.”
Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall, splattering softly against the pavement. Elias stood under the awning, looking through the glass one last time. The painting shimmered faintly under the stormlight—Mira’s outline almost moving, as though her breath fogged the inside of the canvas.
He turned his collar up and walked into the rain.
But no matter how far he went, her image followed. The memory of her hands, her trembling shoulders, the silent echo of the painter’s words—
“She looks for you… and she fears you will break what little of her heart remains.”
For the first time in weeks, Elias felt the ache sharpen into resolve. He needed to find her. Not to apologize, not to justify—but simply to see her again, to understand the love that still pulsed beneath the wreckage.
The rain poured harder, washing the city in silver streaks. He didn’t notice. The chaos around him didn’t matter anymore. Somewhere, beneath that same storm, Mira existed—crying, painting, surviving—and maybe, just maybe, waiting.
- Writer
