“What do you think?” I asked.
But I kept finding the gallery. In the corner of a dream. In the silence after a song ended. In the half-second before a photograph flashed. And every time, a different painting: a child’s hand reaching for a star it would never hold, a train station at 3 a.m., a woman laughing at a funeral. e hen gallery
The gallery accepted it. And in return, it let me hang my own work: a mirror with no reflection, labeled simply: “What do you think
Outside, the storm had passed. The street was wet, ordinary. I looked back at the door. It was now a blank wall, the brass knocker gone, the lantern dead. I touched my palm. The cut had healed into a faint scar shaped like a lowercase e . In the silence after a song ended
“You’re bleeding,” said a voice. Not from anywhere. From everywhere.