The city had grown quieter — or maybe she had.
After everything, even the chaos of New York seemed muted, like the world had decided to speak in softer tones just to give her space to breathe.
The headlines that once carried her name like a brand had thinned out, drifting down the newsfeeds into silence. The whispers, though — those never fully disappeared.
There were always people who found comfort in dissecting the pain of others. The gallery staff whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear; journalists sent “friendly” messages with questions disguised as concern. Even some collectors — old men with glass smiles — reached out under the guise of patronage. They wanted to see what heartbreak had done to her art.
But heartbreak wasn’t what she was painting anymore.
She was painting
