The gallery was a living thing at night.
Every creak of wood, every hum of the old radiator seemed to breathe along with her.
Rain pressed against the tall glass panes, a curtain of liquid light turning the world outside into shifting silhouettes.
Gigi sat cross-legged on the cool floor, her jeans smudged with streaks of burnt sienna and white. A single lamp glowed beside her, its halo soft, golden — the kind of light that made colors whisper instead of shout.
She had spent the last hour just… staring.
At her canvas.
At the unfinished edges, where the paint thinned out like something running out of courage.
It was supposed to be the last piece in her collection, Remnants.
But every time she tried to finish it, her chest tightened — like she was sealing away a truth she hadn’t spoke
