The night was thin, a veil of amber streetlights that barely chased away the chill that lingered after the day's heat died. The small art gallery on Main stood like a quiet promise—its glass doors fogged ever so slightly from the breath of the few patrons that filtered in. Inside, soft lighting pooled against plastered walls, each pool a mute spotlight on canvases that seemed to breathe, to pulse, to whisper of lives lived and unasked‑for futures.
He slipped through the doorway like a thought. The Ghost—older now, the edges of his once‑sharp silhouette softened by years of battle, betrayal, and the unrelenting grind of mercenary life.
He moved to the back of the line, allowing the soft murmur of other visitors to swallow any clatter his boots might have made. The gallery's door shut behind him with a muted click, sealing the space from the outside world. He folded his arms across his chest, the weight of his coat settling over the rifle he kept hidden beneath—an old habit that never fully left him, even when the war was over. In this place, there were no contracts, no price tags, no coded messages exchanged in the shadows. There were only paintings and the quiet breath of people who pretended they could afford to breathe leisurely.
Ghost's gaze drifted from the ceiling, where a cracked chandelier flickered like a dying star, down to the walls. Each painting was a portal. One was a storm‑tossed sea, its waves rendered in thick, angry blues and blacks. Another captured a lone house in winter, its windows glazed with snow, a faint orange glow hinting at life within. He could have spent hours tracing the brushstrokes, trying to read the artist's intent, but his mind drifted elsewhere—to a small, bright figure in the middle of the room, laughing, her hair a cascade of copper that caught the light and reflected it back in a thousand tiny fireworks.
Sarah. The name was a whisper against his ribcage, a throb that made his heart tighten despite the years he had spent numbing every pulse. He had seen her grow from a baby swaddled in a blanket that smelled of pine sap and the faint metallic tang of blood—blood he had spilled for her, for the promise of a life that never came. He had taught her to read, to write, and to paint. He had watched her hands, still chubby and clumsy, clumsy with crayons, then with charcoal, then with oil, as she tried to capture the world that seemed both too large and too small for her.
Now she stood before his older self, her radiance and confidence, surrounded by a cluster of admirers who leaned in, their voices low but enthusiastic. She was speaking about a piece that hung just to her left—a canvas she called "The Void's Embrace." Ghost's eyes fell to the painting, taking in every detail as if the brushstrokes were a coded transmission meant only for him.
The canvas was a large, square panel, dominated by a dark, almost black center that seemed to swallow light. Around it, delicate swirls of violet and teal erupted, like galaxies being torn apart. In the middle of the blackness, a faint silhouette of a child—arms outstretched, head tilted back—was rendered in the palest of whites, almost invisible. The child's outline was jagged, as if the strokes were hurried, as if the artist had been compelled to finish before the moment slipped away. At the bottom, a thin line of broken red—blood?—traced a path from the child's heart outward, dissolving into the surrounding colors.
Ghost felt the weight of that line as a physical pressure on his chest. He remembered the night he had taken Sarah's hand, the night the world changed from "us" to "me." He remembered the moments when she would press her forehead against his, asking, "Daddy, why do you go away?" and he would answer with a lie that tasted like ash. He remembered the scar that ran down his left forearm, the one he'd earned in a firefight that left his partner dead and his own hands forever stained.
Sarah's voice rose, bright and animated, as she described the piece:
"…and the darkness isn't just emptiness. It's a place where everything we fear is held, but it's also where we can find the things we lose. The child in the middle—this is who I think of when I think of the part of me that still believes there's someone out there, someone who can't be reached, but who's still there. It's a part of me that's broken, but it's also… it's hopeful."
Ghost swallowed the lump in his throat, half‑expectant that she might look directly at him, half‑fearful that a glance would betray something… recognition? The truth was that he had not been present enough to let himself be recognized, nor perhaps wanted it. He had come here a ghost, both in name and in deed, to watch from the shadows of his own making.
The crowd clapped, some laughed, the air filled with the soft clinking of wine glasses. Ghost's gaze lingered on Sarah's smile—a crescent that lit up the room like a moonrise. He watched how when she turned her head, a stray lock of hair fell across her cheek and she brushed it away with a quick, graceful motion, the same motion she used as a child to hide tears. Her laughter rang like a bell—clear and unburdened. In that moment, the mercenary's heart, buried beneath layers of iron and ash, thumped with a sorrowful echo.
He saw the way she leaned in toward a visitor, her eyes bright, her hands gesturing to the canvas. He noted how her fingers—still slender, still capable of tracing the lines of a rifle barrel when she was younger—now traced the curves of a flower painted on a different canvas, the petals rendered in thick, visceral strokes of crimson and gold.
His mind spiraled through the curvature of time. Ghost realized that every moment he missed had been a thread he could not pull back. He had thought his absence was necessary, a sacrifice to protect her; yet the truth was that the world he had left her in—one where mercenaries traded in lives like currency—had taken away more than it had given. The cost, he knew, was a debt of grief she would keep paying, even if he was never there to see her pay it.
He turned his view from the canvas to Sarah's eyes again. She had spotted someone standing near the doorway—a man in a dark coat, shoulders hunched, hair slightly greying at the temples. Their eyes met for a heartbeat. Sarah's smile faltered for a flicker, a line of curiosity crossing her brow. He felt the world tilt. He was seen, perhaps, but for whom? He was just another visitor, a phantom among the living.
The man near the doorway—Ghost—shifted his weight, his coat sleeves brushing the polished floor. He felt every ache in his joints, the stiffness of a body that had carried too many loads. He wanted to step forward, to cross the gap of a few paces, to let his presence be known. He wanted to whisper, "I'm here, Sarah. I always have been." And yet, his pragmatic mind, the same that had calculated hits and exits for a living, weighed the consequences.
He was a legend, faceless and untouchable, a ghost in the world's eyes. To be seen would be to risk breaking the fragile illusion he had built—both for his own safety and for hers. If she knew he was there, the world would not stop hunting him again. There would be no safe harbor, no quiet corner where she could paint in peace.
He watched as she glanced again, as if testing the air for his scent, for some sign that this shadow was more than a stranger. Her gaze lingered, the curiosity mixing with an instinctual wariness. She turned back to the group, forced a brighter smile, and launched into an explanation about color theory, her hands moving with graceful assurance. The moment passed, a near‑miss, a brushstroke of potential and of lost opportunity.
Ghost felt an ache that was not merely physical. It was a tender, bitter sweetness that settled deep in his chest. He could have been there when she first held a paintbrush, guiding her hand to keep the colors from bleeding. He could have been there when the first critic scoffed at her work, defending her against the world's cruelty. He could have been there when the night grew too heavy and she cried, a sound that would have broken the hardened shell of any man.
Instead, he was here—still. He stood at the periphery of her life, his silhouette a phantom silhouette that both protected and condemned. The gallery's soft lighting seemed to glow a little brighter, as if acknowledging his presence, his sacrifice. Or perhaps it was just the reflection off the varnished floor, highlighting the glint of his silvered cuffs.
He slipped behind a potted ficus, its leaves creating a natural screen. The murmurs of the crowd washed over him—soft syllables of admiration, the clink of glasses, the distant hum of a jazz trio that played at the back of the room. The ghost of the music floated through his consciousness, a reminder of nights when he would sit by a fire and listen to a lone saxophone wail, a sound that made the edges of his world softer.