Unveiling the lov
The marble floor gleamed like frozen water, flawless enough to catch my reflection as I walked. The air smelled faintly of roses and varnish. Each step echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, and every echo reminded me I was still here—alive, uncomfortably so.
The walls rose around me like cathedral pillars. Renaissance mouldings unfurled in sweeping arcs, gilded with time. The chandelier above was a constellation of crystal, scattering light into a thousand trembling stars. Its glow softened the hallway into gold. Rows of vases overflowed with red and white roses, their perfume saturating the air until the place itself seemed to breathe nostalgia.
I passed my paintings—three to a wall—and for a moment the noise of the world faded. The Trio hung first: three children with arms around each other, uniforms crooked, faces split with laughter. I could almost hear it again, that carefree sound of days untouched by grief. Next came our backyard—swan, pond, lilies—painted from memory, though I've never seen water that still since. The last stopped me cold: Alex. My brother's portrait stared back, alive in pigment, his smile too knowing. I had painted him as I remembered, not as he was when I found him.
Soft instrumental music spilled from the main hall, trembling through the marble. I closed my eyes and imagined what the world might look like if she were still in it.
Two figures appeared in my mind—lovers gliding across this very floor. Her gown was lapis, fluid as smoke; his hand rested at her waist. They moved as though gravity had forgiven them. Every turn of their dance felt familiar, as though the air itself remembered.
My right hand tingled, phantom warmth threading through my fingers. I could almost hear her whisper against my shoulder, "My darling, you are doing exceptionally well."
I smiled to no one. She was the one who left. I was the one who stayed, waiting for a reunion that would only happen beyond breath.
Each morning when sunlight slit through the blinds, I felt her again—the echo of warmth beside me, the ghost of laughter carried by children outside. Their joy reminded me of hers. Life, I've learned, is a long corridor lined with ambitions; some doors open, most don't. People who stop trying aren't cowards—they're just tired of knocking. I am one of them. True peace, I think, will come the day the sky is the last thing I see. On that day, I will greet death like an old friend who has waited too patiently.
If given the chance, I'd fall in love with her again—same heart, same ruin. I'd bring her flowers, kneel, and ask for what I already know I can never keep.
Footsteps stirred me back to the present. Staff hurried quietly through the corridor, polishing glass, adjusting spotlights. The enormous doors at the end of the hall swung open, revealing the main gallery beyond—a cathedral of light. Michael stood at the entrance, posture crisp, greeting guests with his composed smile. The sound of arriving footsteps multiplied until the marble itself seemed to thrum.
People paused before my work—some teary, some calculating. Others stared blankly, already searching for flaws. My throat tightened. It wasn't their judgment that scared me; it was the thought that someone might understand.
I greeted faces—some known, some new. Compliments brushed against me like wind: meaningless, fleeting. Still, I smiled. Seven years hidden away, painting in solitude, screaming into silence, and now here I was—drowned in light. The Aubrey who once played violin before thousands had vanished with Ayah, and I did not mourn him.
Then a hand—firm, warm—landed on my shoulder.
"Abbu," I breathed.
Mr. Zuhaib Ferdous's smile was wide beneath his trimmed beard, his white thobe gleaming under the chandelier. Beside him stood Hayat, her husband Aaban, and little Noor clutching a balloon almost her size.
"How could I miss my son-in-law's exhibition?" he said, eyes shining.
I laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. Kneeling, I pinched Noor's nose. "How's my Noor today?"
She pouted. "Mom didn't buy me cotton candy."
"She already had one," Hayat sighed. Aaban nodded solemnly, the picture of parental alliance.
"Let her have another," Mr. Ferdous interjected with mock outrage. "A little sweetness never hurt anyone."
Noor beamed, triumphant.
And in that small moment—watching their teasing, their ordinary love—I understood something I'd been painting toward for years. Love isn't the grand gesture, it's the gentleness between breaths: a breakfast cooked half-awake, a blanket tucked higher, a small rebellion in favor of cotton candy. Love is the act of staying.
For the first time in years, I felt it around me again—alive, human, forgiving.
Then the lights dimmed. A hush rippled through the hall.
A short man stepped forward, rings glittering like tiny suns. His voice rang out, self-important and theatrical, praising his company's mission to "discover brilliance" while subtly advertising it. I barely heard him; my heartbeat had begun to drum in my ears.
"And now," he declared, "our young star, Mr. Aubrey Ardel!"
Applause surged—a physical force, rising and crashing. My father-in-law's whistle cut through it, sharp and joyous. Michael nudged me toward the stage.
The microphone felt heavy in my hand. The light was too bright. The faces too many. For a moment the air thinned, the walls leaning closer. Then—there. In the blur of the crowd, I saw her. Applauding. Smiling.
She wasn't real. I knew that. But my heart didn't.
"Seven years ago," I began, voice trembling, "I met someone as exquisite as snow, and as fierce as fire."
A small laugh escaped me. "She found beauty in everything I had given up on. She tore down my walls brick by brick and taught me how to see the world again. We fell in love—an impossible, inexplicable love—but we denied it for as long as we could."
Tears blurred my vision. My breath hitched. "True loves," I whispered, "can never stay apart."
The room swam. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe. Panic crept like cold water. Michael was already moving—steady, efficient—guiding me down from the stage. I heard Hayat's worried voice, Aaban's hand steadying me.
Onstage, two men wheeled out the veiled painting. The crowd leaned forward. Red silk shimmered under the lights.
Michael crouched beside me. "You have to do it, Aubrey."
"I can't."
"You must. It's yours."
My hands shook. The audience murmured.
Then a voice behind me—low, calm, unmistakable. "Yes, you can."
I turned.
Arthur Ardel stood there—immaculate suit, silvered hair, eyes the same shade of green as mine. The crowd gasped. Two Ardels, side by side, after all these years.
"Dad…"
He didn't speak. He simply placed both hands on my shoulders—steady, grounding—and nodded once.
Something inside me broke and mended at the same time.
I rose, the hall falling silent. Every heartbeat felt like thunder in my chest. My fingers caught the corner of the veil.
This was more than an unveiling.This was confession. Resurrection. Surrender.
The silk slid away in one slow motion.
Light hit the canvas, and the world held its breath.