Page 37

The antique shop smells like nostalgia and mothballs, a mix of aged wood and forgotten memories. As I step inside, the bell above the door jingles, the sound soft and oddly comforting.

“Daniela, darling!” Betty B’s voice is warm and familiar, like honey in tea. She shuffles out from behind the counter, her wiry frame wrapped in a knitted shawl that’s seen better days. “It’s been too long.”

“Hi, Betty,” I say, smiling despite myself.

She eyes the two hulking guards behind me. “And who are these fine gentlemen? New friends?”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

The taller guard grunts. The shorter one just gives her a tight nod, scanning the shop like Betty might pull a weapon from one of her dusty shelves.

Betty waves them off, unbothered. “Well, come in, come in. I just got a new shipment of art pieces from a local estate sale. Thought of you right away.”

I follow her toward the back, where a mismatched collection of frames leans haphazardly against the wall. Paintings, sketches, photographs—each piece seems to hold a piece of someone’s soul.

The lighting is dim back here, but I’m still able to see. I run my fingers over the edges of a gilded frame, the cracked glass catching faint reflections of me, fractured and distorted.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmur, my voice almost swallowed by the quiet.

Betty beams, her weathered hands brushing against the frames like they’re old friends. “I knew you’d appreciate them. Always had an eye for the good stuff, haven’t you? How’s your own painting coming along, hmm?”

I hesitate. Then I murmur, “It’s....coming.”

She narrows her eyes, and she has the kind of look that sees straight through bullshit. “That bad, huh?”

A shrug is all I can manage. My fingers trail over the delicate brushstrokes of an oil painting, a pastoral scene so far removed from anything I’ve ever known that it feels like a taunt. “It’s not the painting. It’s…everything else. It’s like I’m screaming into a void, and no one’s listening. I just want—”

“To be seen,” she cuts in, her voice soft but knowing, like she’s been down this road herself.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump rising in my throat.

She pats my arm, her touch warm and grounding. “Dreams are funny things, dear. Sometimes, they grow quietly, like wildflowers in the cracks of sidewalks. Other times, they get stomped on before they even have a chance to bloom. But don’t let anyone take yours from you. Not even yourself.”

Her words hit harder than I expect, settling in my chest like jagged stones. Dreams are fragile. She’s right about that. And sometimes, they don’t just get stomped on. They’re obliterated, leaving nothing but ashes and regret.

“I’m trying,” I whisper, but even I can hear the doubt in my voice.

Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glimmer of humor behind them. “Trying? If that’s what you call vandalizing half the citywith that bloody dagger painting of yours, then I’d hate to see what you’d do if you weren’t holding back.”

I can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “You’ve seen it?”

“Seen it?” Betty raises a brow, hands on her hips. “I had a customer the other day swear it was some underground rebellion movement. Asked me if I knew the artist personally.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Told him I didn’t, of course. Wouldn’t want to ruin your mystique.”

I let out a laugh, short but real. “Thanks for covering for me.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t thank me. You owe me. If the cops show up asking about that dagger, I’m sending them straight to you.”

“Fair,” I say, grinning despite myself.

Her tone softens, and she tilts her head, studying me like one of her old, worn paintings. “You know, it’s not just the art. It’s that signature of yours. The bloody hand and the dagger? It’s…well, it’s raw. Honest. It makes people stop and look, even if they don’t understand it.”

I lean back against the wall with my arms crossed. “That’s the point. It’s not supposed to be pretty.”

“Good,” she says firmly. “The world has enough pretty. What it needs is real.”

Her words linger. They make me think of all the nights I’ve spent climbing rooftops and crouching in alleyways, paintbrush in hand. It’s not about rebellion, not really. It’s about leaving something behind, a mark that says I was here. That even if everything else fades, that part of me won’t.

Betty turns back to the paintings, her fingers grazing a frame. “You keep at it, Daniela. Just don’t get yourself arrested, hmm? Not all of us have the cash to bail you out.”