Seraphina #3
Her house sat far above the city on the highest ridge, hidden behind towering wrought-iron gates wrapped in black climbing roses. Calling it a house felt almost insulting.
It was a castle. Not one of those cheerful fairytale castles with singing birds and happy princesses.
No. This looked like something that had frightened the Brothers Grimm.
Massive black river stones formed impossible towers that disappeared into low drifting clouds.
Ivy swallowed entire sections of the walls, thick enough to resemble living veins crawling across old masonry.
Narrow gothic windows pierced the stone like watchful eyes while weathered gargoyles crouched along every roofline, forever frozen somewhere between prayer and violence.
It was magnificent.
"I've never wanted to live inside a nightmare before," I admitted.
Persephone smiled.
"They're surprisingly cozy."
The heavy oak doors opened before we reached them.
Inside, the temperature dropped immediately. The smell hit me first. Oil paint. Turpentine. Old books. Wax. Charcoal. Something floral. Something metallic. The entire mansion smelled like creativity slowly losing its mind.
The entrance hall stretched upward through three stories where crimson velvet curtains framed impossibly tall windows.
Black marble floors reflected candlelight that danced across antique furniture, enormous bookshelves, and sculptures that looked half-finished, as though they'd climbed out of their stone blocks themselves, but nothing prepared me for the gallery.
My feet stopped moving.
The walls were covered. Floor to ceiling. Dozens. Hundreds. Paintings. Not portraits. Not landscapes. Not still life.
Emotions. Pure emotion somehow trapped beneath layers of paint. One enormous canvas was nothing, but violent crimson slashed through with streaks of charcoal black.
It made my pulse spike.
Another seemed almost empty until I stared longer. Muted blue. Soft grey. Tiny scratches beneath the surface.
Loneliness.
Not ordinary loneliness. The kind that settles inside empty houses after funerals. The kind that sits beside you while you eat dinner alone.
I could feel it.
Another canvas twisted my stomach so violently I stepped backward without realizing.
Fear.
Raw.
Animals.
Cornered.
The room wasn't displaying paintings.
It was displaying nervous systems.
“People paint faces," Persephone said quietly behind me.
"I've never understood the obsession."
I looked over my shoulder.
"What do you paint?"
She smiled almost shyly.
"What happens underneath them?"
I turned back toward the paintings.
"My grandmother used to tell me every emotion had its own colour."
"My grandmother told me never to trust men with polished shoes."
"Were either of them, right?"
She looked around the gallery.
"I think mine was."
I laughed.
"So did mine."
She walked toward another enormous canvas hidden beneath black silk.
"My next exhibition opens in six months."
She gently removed the fabric. The unfinished painting beneath wasn't frightening. It was heartbreaking. Colours bled into one another without forming anything recognizable. Hope dissolves into grief. Love collapsing beneath guilt. Joy interrupted by panic. It made my chest ache.
"The collection is called Synaistimata," she said softly.
"It means emotions in Greek. I'm trying to paint what people refuse to say out loud."
I couldn't stop looking.
"They're alive."
"They're unfinished."
"They're perfect."
"They're neither."
She smiled.
"They're honest."
I turned toward her.
"I think we're going to make remarkable friends."
"I think so too."
For the first time in years... I believed it.
The drive back to Blackridge felt different. The mountains didn't seem quite as lonely. The silence inside my car wasn't empty anymore. It was peaceful. I caught your reflection in the passenger-side window as the forest swallowed the last traces of Hollow City behind me.
Making friends turns out to be considerably easier than people make it sound.
I rounded another bend.
The trick isn't finding normal people. It’s accepting that normal people are terribly boring.
My fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel.
Persephone never asked what I do for work. She never asked whether I'm seeing anyone. She never asked where I went to university. Instead, she asked whether I thought grief had a smell...whether ghosts get lonely...and whether I'd rather be remembered fondly or remembered forever.
I think those are much better questions.
The cottage appeared between the trees just as twilight settled across the valley. I switched off the engine but didn't get out immediately. Instead, I looked toward the dark woods separating my property from Elias's.
Still no truck.
Still no movement.
Still no detective.
I rested my forehead against the steering wheel for just a second.
I made a friend today.
The words felt strangely wonderful and dangerous at the same time. I think she's exactly the sort of person Mother would've warned me about. Which probably means she'll be good for me or devastating. Sometimes those become the very same thing.
And if you're still reading...
Don't worry.
I'm keeping you too.