Page 42 of Veil of Ashes
The sun hangs low, a fierce blood-orange, casting shadows that stretch over the cracked sidewalk. It tries to swallow them, erase the scars of this place, but it can’t—nothing wipes this corner clean.
I slip into the alley snaking behind what used to be mine. The metal gate screeches as I shove it open, hinges grinding loud against rust. I twist sideways, squeezing through, the busted lock swaying useless.
No one fixes anything here anymore. They just slap paint over the mess and call it art. The gallery looms ahead, white walls turned gray, smeared with grime and jagged graffiti tags.
Broken glass crunches under my boots as I approach. The sign dangles crooked—Zeno & D’Agostino Atelier—letters chipped, paint flaking, but still holding on, refusing to vanish.
I nudge the door, and it swings in, groaning on its hinges. Cold air hits me sharp, cutting through my jacket, unexpected for a place this rundown. Dust blankets everything—tables, shelves, the floor—thick and clinging.
Tubes of paint litter the ground, shriveled and hard, like forgotten bodies. A broken easel slumps in the corner, legs bent awkward, too worn to stand tall.
Canvases lie scattered—ripped, slashed, edges curling under splintered frames. This place once shone with pride, with color. Now it’s a tomb for dreams I let go.
I used to think this space could pull me free. Turns out it only taught me how to hide my lies in prettier strokes. The quiet presses close, but I hear it anyway—laughter, faint and piercing.
Not real. Not now. His. Enzo’s voice cuts in, sharp as if he’s here. I see him clear—perched on that stool, one foot hooked on the rung, sleeves rolled past his elbows.
His shirt’s streaked—ochre, ultramarine, a splash of crimson. Back then, the gallery smelled alive—linseed oil, espresso, a bite of turpentine. His hands guided mine over a canvas I feared touching.
“Forgery is about soul, Sylvara,” he said, voice rough but warm. “Match the artist’s pain—not just the lines.” I recall that day, tracing a lost Caravaggio, my shadows too perfect.
I messed it up, too neat. He grabbed my thumb, dragged it through the dark paint, and smeared it across the edge. The mark bled, raw and messy.
“There,” he said, grinning big. “No artist paints without a bruise.” His laugh filled the room, bold and free, and I laughed too, hands trembling from espresso and effort.
I shake it off, dropping to a crouch by the wall. Bottom left panel, loose at the corner—just like he left it. My fingers slip into the groove, pressing firm.
A quick push, and it pops free, dust puffing out. Light spills into the shallow recess, dim but enough. My portfolio sits there, untouched, waiting for me.
Black leather, spine cracked, but intact. I pull it out, brushing grit off with my sleeve. My breath hitches, catching rough in my throat as I hold it tight.
I ease it open, pages falling soft under my hands. Sketches unfold—forged Monet lilies, warped into violent reds and bruised purples, petals jagged with my own fire.
A stolen Kandinsky study comes next, lines sharp and wild, three weeks of my life etched into every curve. Then my own work—half-finished girls with furious eyes, saints with wings snapped clean.
Near the middle, one page stops me—charcoal, soft and raw. A self-portrait, unsigned, staring back with hollow cheeks and a gaze that cuts too deep.
I didn’t need to sign it. It’s the only one that’s real, the only one that’s me—not a borrowed voice, not a mask. My fingers trace the lines, smudging faint.
Enzo’s voice echoes again, clear as ever. “Art reveals,” he said, leaning close that day. “But you, Syl? You know how to disguise the truth in beauty.”
He didn’t just teach me to mimic strokes or mix colors. He showed me how to vanish—how to bury myself in paint and ink, in names that weren’t mine.
I sit back, knees pressing into the dirt-streaked floor, portfolio resting in my lap. The building bleeds memory around me—every crack, every stain a piece of what we had.
That ache rises, the one I shoved down under forged ledgers and perfect fakes. Surviving wasn’t enough then—I wanted to craft something that screamed I existed.
Now, I’m not sure. Is that girl gone, burned out by years of running? Or is she still here, waiting, clawing for a chance to break free?
I flip through more pages—studies of hands, a forged Vermeer corner, a sketch of Enzo mid-laugh, locked in charcoal. My chest tightens, fingers pausing on his face.
The cold bites deeper, seeping through my jeans, chilling my legs. Dust stings my nose, but I don’t move, just sit there, surrounded by ghosts and paint.
This portfolio is more than paper. It’s my hands, my nights, my fight. Maybe it’s my last shot at finishing something that mattered, something truly mine.
And then I find it.
Tucked between two unfinished portraits—one of me, one of my mother—is a leather-bound journal.
