A burning Rose

Brushstrokes

FIYIN (ROSE)

I didn’t want to come.

Even when he asked with soft eyes and careful words—like he was offering a kitten to someone who feared claws—I said no. Twice.

I wasn’t ready to be seen. By him. By the world. By anyone.

But he waited. Quietly. Like someone who had made a promise to himself.

So here I was, standing in the crisp, scented air of a gallery I couldn’t name, wearing clothes I didn’t buy, beside a man I wasn’t sure I trusted.

And yet.

The moment I stepped inside, something in me stirred.

The walls were bathed in soft white light, the kind that made the paintings glow from within. The space was quiet, but not silent—murmurs floated through like dust, conversations about textures and themes and color theory. But none of that reached me.

Because the first painting I saw took all the air out of my lungs.

A giant canvas, dark as a thundercloud, but in the center—a single golden line, like someone had split the sky with a sword of light.

I don’t know how long I stood there.

I just knew I couldn’t look away.

Feddie came up beside me but didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

Which was new.

After a moment, he said, “What do you see?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“I don’t know,” I murmured. “But… it feels like the moment something breaks. And you don’t know if it’s destruction or escape.”

He tilted his head. “That’s exactly what the artist said when he made it. That it was about rupture. But also rebirth.”

I looked at him. “Did you pick this gallery on purpose?”

He gave the smallest smile. “Maybe.”

I didn’t return it. Not yet. But something softened between us.

We kept walking. Past paintings that looked like dreams, and sculptures that felt like questions.

There was a series of abstract works in red and ochre that made my palms sweat. I didn’t understand why. But something inside me twisted at the colors.

When we reached a quiet corner, tucked behind a large installation, I paused.

There it was.

A painting of a burning house. Not realistic—more like a memory rendered through fire and smoke. The lines were loose. The flames looked alive.

But it wasn’t the house that stopped me.

It was the figure in front of it. A woman. Arms raised. Hair wild. And her eyes—

I knew those eyes.

I stumbled back a step.

Feddie caught me.

“What’s wrong?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came.

I stared at the woman.

A word pressed against my tongue. Not English. Not Spanish. Something old.

I reached out and touched the corner of the canvas before I could stop myself.

And there it was.

A whisper.

Mo nife’re gan she’ogbon.

My knees almost buckled.

Feddie grabbed my arm, steadying me.

“What is it?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My body was in the gallery, but my spirit was somewhere else—where the air smelled of smoke and herbs, and a woman’s voice echoed in my bones.

I blinked and the moment passed, like mist slipping off a mirror.

“I think I saw her,” I whispered.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I mean… I think I do. But I can’t explain it.”

Feddie didn’t push. He just nodded and said, “Come with me.”

He led me to a smaller room—a private viewing space, he said.

The walls were lined with work from lesser-known artists. One stood out.

A charcoal sketch of two figures bound together by a red thread that twisted like smoke between them.

I stepped closer. The thread wasn’t red ink. It was fabric, sewn in.

I ran my fingers over it.

A warmth spread through my chest.

“Destiny,” I murmured.

Feddie turned to me. “What?”

I looked up. “That’s what this is. Two people. Bound by something they can’t see—but can feel.”

“Do you believe in that?” he asked. Not teasing. Just… open.

“I think I have to,” I said. “Or none of this makes sense.”

There was silence between us. But it wasn’t awkward. It felt… aligned.

Feddie moved closer. Not invading. Just near enough for me to feel the steadiness of him.

“You’re not alone, Rose,” he said quietly.

I didn’t respond with words.

I just stood there. Still and full. And I let the warmth settle.

For the first time since I woke up in that hospital, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Later That Evening

We walked out into the night.

The stars were shy, tucked behind clouds. But the moon was full, and I felt it tug at something inside me.

Feddie drove in silence most of the way home, music low, hands calm on the wheel.

When he parked, I didn’t move.

I stared at the dashboard. “Thank you. For today.”

He looked at me, a little surprised.

“You’re welcome.”

“I mean it,” I said. “I didn’t think I could… feel something again. Not like that.”

He nodded. Then paused. “Who do you think she was? The woman in the painting?”

I closed my eyes.

“She was my mother.”

And I meant it with everything in me.