CHAPTER 11 ( Part 2 )
1204 Words
Whoever had painted it had paid extraordinary attention to the smallest details.
She smiled faintly before moving on.
The students gradually drifted toward another corner of the gallery, where Sara had stopped beside a large canvas.
"This painting," she said, "was restored only last year after being badly damaged by moisture."
The children gathered around her, listening carefully.
Aizal remained a few steps behind.
Her attention had wandered elsewhere.
At the far end of the gallery...
Half-hidden between two larger paintings...
A smaller canvas caught her eye.
She couldn't explain why.
Something about it quietly pulled her forward.
She walked closer.
The painting was unlike any of the others.
It showed a lonely clearing deep within a forest.
Ancient trees rose high into the sky, their thick branches weaving together until very little sunlight reached the ground.
The earth was covered with dry leaves.
Wild vines wrapped themselves around broken stones.
A narrow path disappeared into the shadows, as though leading somewhere long forgotten.
There wasn't a single person in sight.
Yet the place didn't feel empty.
It felt...
As though someone had only just left.
Aizal stepped even closer.
Her eyes wandered slowly across the canvas, studying every careful brushstroke.
Then she noticed it.
On one of the lower branches of an old tree...
A small white cat sat quietly, its bright eyes fixed on something beyond the edge of the painting.
It wasn't the centre of the artwork.
In fact, it was easy to miss.
Yet somehow...
It felt important.
A strange feeling settled over her.
Not fear.
Not recognition.
Something in between.
As though the painting carried a memory she couldn't quite reach.
Behind her, the students continued asking questions.
Their voices sounded distant now.
Almost muffled.
Without taking her eyes off the painting, Aizal slowly bent down to read the small brass plaque beneath the frame.
Untitled
Artist: Unknown
She frowned slightly.
Unknown.
For reasons she couldn't explain, that single word unsettled her more than the painting itself.
Just then, Sara noticed where she was standing.
She walked over with a polite smile.
"That piece attracts more attention than people expect."
Aizal looked at her.
"Do you know anything about the artist?"
Sara shook her head.
"Very little."
"The painting arrived as part of a private donation many years ago."
"There were no letters, no records... nothing that identified the painter."
"No signature?" Aizal asked quietly.
Sara glanced at the canvas.
"There is one."
"But..."
"It's unlike any artist's signature we've been able to identify."
Aizal's eyes slowly returned to the lower corner of the painting.
Only now did she notice the tiny marking beside the faded initials.
She took one step closer.
Then another.
Her heartbeat slowed.
The small symbol was almost hidden beneath layers of aged varnish.
Five delicate petals.
Perfectly balanced around a tiny circle.
A flower.
Her breath caught.
The world around her seemed to fade.
For one suspended moment...
She could see only that symbol.
Exactly the same.
The same five-petaled flower.
The same pattern.
The same delicate lines carved onto the mysterious wooden box...
And onto the paintbrush resting inside it.
Aizal stared at the corner of the painting, unable to look away.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the strap of her bag.
How... is this possible?The journey back to school felt much livelier than the quiet ride to the exhibition.
The children filled the bus with excited conversations.
"Miss Aizal, I liked the painting with the old lighthouse!"
"No, the forest painting was much better!"
"I want to paint the white cat!"
"It looked so real!"
Laughter echoed through the bus.
Amna smiled as she reached for the paper bag resting beside her seat.
"Alright, everyone," she said warmly. "Before we get back to school... snack time."
A chorus of delighted voices answered her.
"Thank you, Miss Amna!"
She began passing around juice boxes and packets of biscuits while Aizal helped the younger children open the ones they couldn't manage on their own.
For several minutes, the bus was filled with nothing but cheerful laughter, playful conversations, and the crinkling of snack wrappers.
"I wish we could stay there longer," one little girl sighed.
"So do I," another replied. "There were still so many paintings we didn't see."
"You'll have another chance one day," Aizal said with a gentle smile.
The children seemed satisfied with that answer and quickly returned to discussing their favourite paintings.
Aizal turned her gaze towards the window.
Buildings drifted past one after another.
But her thoughts remained inside the exhibition hall.
The forgotten landscape.
The silent trees.
The small white cat resting on the branch.
And the tiny symbol hidden in the corner of the painting.
She unconsciously tightened her grip around her phone.
Whatever that symbol meant...
She intended to find out.
...
By the time the bus reached the school, the afternoon sun had begun sinking towards the horizon.
Parents waited outside the gate while the children thanked both teachers before leaving with bright smiles.
"Goodbye, Miss Aizal!"
"Bye, Miss Amna!"
"In shaa Allah, we'll paint tomorrow!"
"In shaa Allah," Aizal replied with a smile.
Once every child had safely left, she and Amna gathered their belongings.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Amna said.
"Drive safely."
"You too."
They exchanged warm smiles before heading to their cars.
The drive home passed quietly.
For the first time in days, Aizal didn't switch on the radio.
Silence suited her thoughts better.
As soon as she entered the house, she greeted her parents before excusing herself.
"I'm a little tired," she said with a small smile.
Mrs. Hashmi nodded understandingly.
"Go and get some rest."
Aizal climbed the stairs and walked straight to her room.
The late afternoon sunlight stretched across the floor, illuminating the easel near the window.
She walked past it without stopping.
Instead, she carefully lifted the wooden box from the shelf and placed it on her desk.
For a long moment, she simply looked at it.
Then she opened the photograph she had taken at the exhibition.
Slowly...
She placed the phone beside the wooden box.
Her eyes moved from the carved symbol on the lid...
...to the symbol hidden in the corner of the painting.
There was no mistake.
Every line.
Every curve.
Every petal.
They were exactly the same.
A quiet shiver ran through her.
She reached for her phone once more.
The strange notification from the previous night suddenly came back to her mind.
She opened her art page and selected the message requests.
Only one unread request was waiting.
She tapped it.
The conversation contained no words.
No greeting.
No introduction.
Only a single image.
Her heartbeat slowed.
It was the same five-petaled symbol.
Nothing else.
Aizal stared at the screen for several long seconds before typing.
Who are you?
She pressed send.
Another message followed.
How do you know this symbol?
Again...
She waited.
No reply came.
The room fell completely silent.
Outside, the evening breeze stirred the curtains.
Inside...
Aizal looked from the glowing phone screen to the old wooden box resting quietly on her desk.
For the first time...
She had the unmistakable feeling that someone else was following the same trail she had only just begun to uncover.
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