Chapter 4 - The Sanctuary of Portland
My house was a small, Craftsman-style bungalow in the quiet neighborhood of Sellwood. It was surrounded by towering Douglas firs and a creaky wooden fence. When I brought Noah inside, he looked tiny, swamped in an oversized hoodie I had bought him from the hospital gift shop.
He stood in the hallway, clutching his splinted wrist to his chest, looking around as if expecting the walls to collapse.
"It's okay, Noah," I said softly, kicking off my shoes. "No one can come in here. I have a security system, and the police are patrolling the street."
He looked at my living room wall, where a large, abstract canvas hung. It was a painting of a twilight sky, blending deep indigos, violet, and gold.
Noah’s eyes widened. "Mom has a drawing of that. In her sketchbook. She said it was the prettiest place in the world."
My heart skipped a beat. "We painted that together, Noah. On the roof of our old apartment building on 15th Avenue. We called it 'the sky we stole.'"
"Is that where the key goes?" he asked, looking up at me with an innocence that broke my heart.
"I think so," I whispered. "But tonight, we sleep. You're safe here."
I made him a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup—a vast improvement over my cereal—and set up the guest room with fresh, warm blankets. He fell asleep almost instantly, exhausted from the trauma of the crash.
I sat on the edge of his bed, watching his chest rise and fall. He looked so much like Megan, but he had a quiet resilience that must have come from years of running. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key.
“Where we first painted the sky.”
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The old apartment building on 15th Avenue had been sold years ago, but the basement of that building used to house private storage lockers for the tenants. Megan and I had rented locker 419 to store our extra canvases and paints.
Could it still be there? After twelve years, would her locker still contain her secrets?
