Frowning, I do a tight spin, peering into the darker sections of the room.
No door. Nobody standing in the shadows.
Returning my attention to the cloth, I give it a tug, hand fluttering to my chest as it pools to the floor ...
I’m fearful to blink lest I sever the view, my serrated breath a tribute to the masterpiece before me.
Trapped within the confines of the ornate frame is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.
A male and female, knee-deep in grass, are walking side by side atop a rolling hill. There’s a storm brewing in the distance, wind pushing the woman’s long, raven hair to the side. The detail is so delicate, I feel I could brush the individual strands with the tips of my fingers—smooth them out or plait them into a long braid to keep it off her face.
The man is half cast in shadow from the approaching storm, stance strong, shoulders broad. The real beauty lies in what’s strungbetweenthe adults, swinging through the air, caught in an oily eternity; a small girl with long, gray hair flicking about her in suspended animation.
I feel her happiness bubbling inside me, as tangible as the hammering organ in my chest.
It bleeds away in the very next moment.
Who are these people? What happened to them? Why is all this stuff packed in a room nobody uses?
I scan the space ...
It feels like a crypt where beautiful things came to be forgotten about, at least until I snuck in and poked my nose around.
I don’t belong here.
My curiosity has taken a step too far this time, and there’s no covering my tracks. No unseeing the happiness in this painting; a bliss that feels empty like the bassinet, the cupboard, the bed.
Guilt has a taste I’m far too familiar with—bitter and biting.
I replace all the sheets while that taste sours my stomach, making the already sickly organ turn. Leaping, I grip the bottom of the bare window frame and haul myself free of the room.
The Grave ... that’s what I’ll call it.
A grave for happy things.
The climb back up my tower seems longer, a weight pushing on my shoulders with every silent step.
Shame.
Shame for breaking into that reliquary. For having the book stuffed in my bag ...
I should return it. Probably will.
AfterI’ve read it.
My door clunks shut, and I slam the deadlock into place, sealing myself inside a different sort of tomb. One I intend to stay in all day while I nurse my throbbing, lethargic brain and search for the desire to move again.
Everything weighs too much. My feet, body, mind ...
Heart.
I stack the fire full of wood, guzzle another glass of water to ease my chalky tongue, then stack pillows behind my back to form a comfortable nest. Nose stamped against the leather-bound book, I draw a breath, releasing a raspy moan as the aged smell attempts to cradle my sins.
I shouldn’t have taken this.
Even so, I open the front cover, peel page after page, and pour over the book’s secrets.
Try to decipher them.
