The door to my apartment creaked open, revealing the same dim space I had left earlier. The air was thick, carrying the familiar scent of paint and stale coffee. Canvases were stacked against the walls, each one a reminder of my failure — lifeless attempts at capturing something I couldn't quite grasp. But tonight was different.
The alley still played in my mind. The woman's figure, the hollow expression, the way the darkness clung to her like an extension of her sorrow. She had vanished, but her presence lingered like a permanent stain on my thoughts. My hands itched to hold a brush, to trap what I'd seen on canvas before it faded from memory.
I kicked off my shoes, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. The glow from the streetlamp outside poured through the cracked blinds, casting striped shadows along the floor. It was enough. The old wooden easel stood in the corner, a blank canvas already mounted and waiting.
I started with the shape of her figure. Each stroke felt deliberate, instinctual. The tremble of her shoulders. The hollowness of her eyes. Her lips, slightly parted as though caught between a sob and silence. The darkness embraced her like an old friend. My brush moved without hesitation, the shades of gray and deep crimson bleeding into each other. It was unlike anything I'd ever painted.
I worked through the night. Hours blurred together as the city outside quieted, leaving only the occasional hum of distant traffic. But I didn't stop. The frustration that had once shackled me was gone, replaced by a clarity I'd never known. It was as if the woman had granted me a gift — a glimpse of something beyond the ordinary.
By the time I stepped back, my legs were numb, and my arms ached. The painting was finished. And it was beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, but in the way it held something raw and unsettling. The eyes of the woman seemed to pierce through the canvas, accusing and pleading all at once. I didn't know her, but now she knew me.
The next morning, sunlight crept through the blinds, illuminating the dried strokes of paint. A faint metallic smell still lingered in the air. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the piece that had stolen my night. But even then, it didn't feel like enough. The satisfaction I craved was fleeting.
I needed more.
But first, I had to see if it was worth anything.
The city's art scene wasn't exactly welcoming to nobodies like me. Galleries had rejected my work more times than I could count, their polite smiles always masking their disinterest. But this piece was different. It had a pulse.
I made the calls, forced down the bitterness in my voice as I inquired about any opportunities to showcase my work. Most responses were the same — no space, no interest. Until one gallery, tucked away on the wealthier side of town, agreed to take a look.
When I arrived, the gallery's walls gleamed with polished perfection, the white marble floor reflecting the light of pristine chandeliers. The air smelled of aged wine and expensive perfume. People like me didn't belong there, but the man waiting for me didn't seem to care.
Mr. Laurent was tall and thin, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than a year's rent for my apartment. His eyes, dark and narrow, scanned the painting with a quiet intensity. I shifted beneath his gaze, the urge to defend my work bubbling inside me. But before I could speak, he nodded.
"This," he said, his voice low, "is fascinating."
Fascinating. I wasn't sure if it was praise or judgment.
"I'll have it displayed," he continued. "The right people will see it."
And they did.
The gallery exhibition was set for the following week. It wasn't a grand event, not by the standards of the well-established artists who often showcased there. But it was something. My painting, now titled Her Shadow, hung in a corner of the room, where the light seemed to pull it out of the shadows, allowing its raw energy to reach out to the few who passed by. It didn't speak the way paintings were supposed to. It whispered, or maybe it screamed, but no one could ignore it.
I wasn't sure what I was hoping for. Validation? Recognition? The approval of a world that had dismissed me for so long? Or maybe it was just the hope that, for once, something I created would matter. That it would leave a mark. The kind of mark that would change everything.
The night of the exhibition, the gallery was quieter than I expected. There were only a few people mingling in their crisp, expensive clothes, sipping wine and discussing what they'd seen. Most of them seemed uninterested in the smaller, less refined works. They barely glanced at my painting. But I didn't mind. It was enough just to be there, to have taken that first step.
Then, I saw him.
A man, older than most of the guests, with sharp features and graying hair. His suit was the kind that suggested wealth, the kind of wealth that could buy entire buildings without blinking. He stood in front of Her Shadow for an unnervingly long time. His hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowed, as if trying to decipher some puzzle that no one else could see.
I waited.
The man didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my presence. Instead, he muttered something to Mr. Laurent, who stood off to the side, watching the man carefully. I could hear fragments of their conversation — words like "raw emotion," "untapped potential," and "unsettling depth." It was the kind of language that belonged in an art review, not a real conversation between two people.
Finally, the man turned and walked toward me. He was taller up close, his presence commanding, but there was an unsettling calm to him, like he was always in control.
"This painting," he said, his voice low and smooth, "is exactly what I've been looking for."
For a moment, I thought I had misheard him.
"I'll take it," he continued, his words a simple command. "How much?"
I wanted to laugh. I couldn't. It wasn't funny.
I stammered, trying to remember the price I had whispered to Mr. Laurent earlier. A price that seemed ridiculous now, but it was all I could muster.
"F-five thousand," I said, barely able to get the words out.
The man didn't flinch. He nodded.
"It's done," he said.
I had barely processed the transaction before Mr. Laurent led the man away to finalize the details. As I stood there, staring at the space where my painting had been, a deep sense of disbelief washed over me. The painting was gone, and so was the woman. The feeling that had gripped me so tightly had disappeared. Just like that.
But the money? It was still there. It was all in my pocket.
I felt like I should be ecstatic, like I should have jumped up and screamed, but instead, I just stood frozen. The emptiness inside me returned, its familiar presence like an old, unwelcome friend.
I had sold my first piece, but it hadn't brought what I expected. Not validation, not satisfaction. Just a quiet, suffocating void.
I stepped into the cool night air, the weight of the world settling on my shoulders once more. But as I walked down the street, the satisfaction of the sale gnawed at the edges of my mind, and I realized something.
This was just the beginning. And nothing would ever be the same again