Still, something began to feel… off. I’d catch him staring at me—not lovingly, but with a quiet fear, like he was bracing for something.
One afternoon, Henry was heading to the market and forgot his gloves on the kitchen table. Thinking he was still in the garage, I went to bring them to him.
The door was slightly ajar. Dust floated in a beam of afternoon light.
I hesitated… then pushed it open.
And froze.
Every wall was covered in portraits—hundreds of them—of the same woman at different stages of life. She was laughing in some, crying in others, sleeping, angry, soft… deeply human.
In the corners of many paintings were dates.
Some were in the future.
I stepped closer and took one down, studying it carefully.
“Who is she?”
“Sweetheart,” Henry’s voice came from behind me, trembling, “I told you not to come in here.”
