Chapter 3 - The Gallery of Echoes
The gallery was breathtaking. High ceilings, minimalist white walls, and soft, dramatic lighting highlighted the artwork. But as I walked through the crowd of chatting socialites holding champagne flutes, my eyes didn't linger on the architecture. They were drawn to the art.
The exhibition was entirely composed of paintings by a single artist, signed only with the initials E.A.
I walked up to the first canvas. It was a massive oil painting of a dilapidated suburban house. The colors were dark, moody blues and greys, but there was a single, warm light shining from a kitchen window. My breath caught in my throat. It was my old house. The house I had shared with Amara. The house I had sold the moment I kicked Ethan out.
I moved to the next painting. This one was smaller, more intimate. It depicted a woman with long, dark hair, sitting by a window, her face illuminated by the afternoon sun. She was sewing a patch onto a torn blue backpack.
Amara.
The likeness was devastatingly accurate. The gentle curve of her smile, the sadness that always seemed to linger in the corner of her eyes, the grace of her hands. It was undeniably her. My hands began to shake. I reached out, wanting to touch the canvas, but drew my hand back just in time.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I spun around to see a woman in her late thirties standing beside me. She wore a sophisticated emerald pantsuit, her hair tied back in a neat bun. She was holding a clipboard.
"Are you the curator?" I asked, my voice tight.
"I am Maya Lin, the director of this gallery," she said, offering a polite nod. "And the one who called you."
"Where is he?" I demanded, abandoning all pretense of politeness. "Where is Ethan? Did he paint these?"
Maya looked at the portrait of Amara, her eyes softening. "Yes, Daniel. Ethan painted every single one of these. He is 'E.A.'—Ethan Amara. He took his mother’s name as his professional surname."
"I want to see him. Is he here?" I looked around the crowded room, my eyes searching the faces of the young men in the crowd, trying to find a trace of the twelve-year-old boy I had abandoned.
"He is not here tonight, Daniel," Maya said, her tone turning cold and serious. "Ethan is currently in London preparing for his European tour. But he requested that I ensure you attended this opening. He wanted you to see his work. He wanted you to see his truth."
"Why?" I asked, my chest aching. "Why now, after ten years?"
May you like
Maya walked over to a cordoned-off section of the gallery. A large painting stood there, covered by a heavy velvet drape. "Because," she said, looking back at me with a mixture of pity and anger, "there is a story you need to finish reading. Ethan didn't just paint his memories of his mother. He painted the truth about you."
She reached out and pulled the cord, letting the velvet drape fall to the floor.
