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I slip my shoes off and carry them as I proceed—barefoot—down the staircase until I find myself before a large, heavy door.
You’re not supposed to be here …I can hear a small voice in my head warning me. At times, it sounds like me, then like Mercy, then Larissa, and finally Nikolai. Something tells me that this is a place that holds deep secrets I’m not allowed to know.
I examine the edges of the heavy door and realize that it swings inward. I press my hand against it, expecting it not to budge. But to my surprise, the heavy door swings open soundlessly, revealing a long hallway that seems to stretch forever.
Turn around!my mind screams at me.Turn around before it’s too late! You’ll get caught! Someone will find you and tell Nikolai!
But I don’t. Some unseen force seems to possess me in that moment, and I take a small step forward. The ground feels gritty under my feet, and I get the feeling that nobody, not even Dominika and the rest of the staff, is allowed here.
It sure feels like nobody’s been down here for a long time.
A single light bulb winks to life, illuminating the narrow concrete hallway. A sense of unease penetrates me to my core at the distant darkness waiting for me at the end.
Yet curiosity goads my feet to act, and I walk forward down this single hallway. The light bulb casts long shadows of me into the distant dark room. I notice the scent of paint and turpentine filling my nostrils as the hallway widens into a large room. A large window runs along one of the walls, and thick curtains hide the dying rays of the afternoon sun peeking behind.
Reaching out, I fumble along the wall until I feel a switch and flick it on.
Overhead lights, soft and yellow, sting my eyes, which have just become adjusted to the darkness. It takes a moment for my gaze to adjust, but when I blink again, I find myself surrounded by half-finished paintings and dirty palettes and paintbrushes scattered around.
I reach out and touch one of the paintbrushes, and I draw back when I realize it is still wet.
Someone was here recently.
Like a thief, I steal a quick glance back at the door as I listen for the sound of errant footsteps. My heartbeat pounds against my ears as I count one second after another. But I hear nothing. Not even Dominika has come to check for me.
Slowly, I walk deeper into the space, examining every brushstroke on every painting. A finished painting depicts a stormy ocean with waves crashing over jagged rocks. I lean in closer, eyes lighting up as I admire the masterful strokes. The paint is applied in a layered texture, creating a three-dimensional relief that stabs out from the flat canvas. The details are so intricate that I can practically hear the roar of the water and feel the spray against my skin.
There is a juxtaposition between some of the delicately finer details and the fierce, raw power the painting conveys.
I wonder who its creator is and kneel down to look for a name in the corner. To my disappointment, I find none.
Sighing, I continue deeper into the gallery, pausing as another canvas catches my attention. The works here are exquisite and demonstrate a skill that should be shown to the world.
Not locked away in a dark place like this.
My eyes catch sight of something bright, and my heart leaps to my throat. Rounding the corner past another canvas, I breathe a sigh of relief when I realize it is just another painting, only to stop when I realize what I’m looking at.
A single chrysanthemum suspended above a body of water.
But unlike the one I saw at the gallery, this is different. There is no light airiness to it, nor the beauty of isolation that Kaori so effortlessly imparted in her painting. No, this painting feels brutish and violent. Every stroke of paint betrays unmuted anger. The thin petals of the chrysanthemum look as if they have been carved into the canvas by a jagged knife. And mixed among the white and yellow petals are splotches of red that remind me eerily of blood.
Suddenly, Nikolai’s words at the gallery echo in my mind.It was a personal commission,he told me.
Is this painting also part of that commission? My eyes are drawn to the lower corner, where I expect Kaori’s signature to be. But just like the other paintings here, this one is also without a name.
I walk past painting after painting, each one a landscape that showcases the same kind of raw emotion—anger, hatred, and malice—yet finely detailed and delicate in composition. Whoever painted these understands cruelty as much as creativity, that much is certain.
The canvases rise around me until I finally reach one on an easel hidden by a cloth. A delicately painted fingertip peeks out from the edges of the cloth and tempts me to pull it back to reveal the secret underneath. After all, it’s the first and only non-landscape painting here so far.
I reach out, heart racing at what I might discover. If the other paintings’ subject matters are any indication, I half expect to find a grotesque portrait of a monster.
I shouldn’t …I tell myself when my fingers grip the heavy cloth. But I want to know. Ineedto know.
“C’mon, Eden,” I whisper to myself. “Now or never.”
With a deep breath, I flip the cloth over the large canvas and gasp when I see its subject.
A beautiful woman sits in repose on a couch, surrounded by rays of light. Unlike every other painting here, this one is filled with light and delicate features. In the dim space, it practically glows like a second sun. A slight smile graces her face, one that seems to reassure me the longer I stare at it. In her fingers are three long green stalks—each ending in a beautifully detailed chrysanthemum, though one of them is drooping, almost as if it’s reached the end of its life.
