Beginning of an End
She came to me in my dreams last night.Her presence was faint, almost spectral — the kind of beauty that flickers at the edge of consciousness. She moved toward me like mist in motion, her eyes reflecting a light I hadn't seen in years. I reached for her."Free me from this pain," I whispered. "Take me with you."
But she didn't answer.
When I opened my eyes, the world felt hollow. The ceiling above me was an endless stretch of white, too clean, too silent. My breath came in uneven bursts. Sweat clung to my skin, despite the cold pressing through the windowpanes. Outside, New York slept under a quilt of snow — calm, untouched, cruelly beautiful. Winter has a way of romanticizing grief; it makes death look peaceful. I stared out at the stillness, wondering how something so quiet could feel so loud inside me.
That morning bled into memory — fragments of sirens, Michael's voice shouting my name, and my father's face twisted in fear. That last one never left me. Arthur Ardel — the man who could command orchestras, silence critics, and charm the world — had finally looked afraid.
He hadn't flinched when Alex died. Not when his wife, Serena Jewels, packed her bags and left him for someone else. But that day, when I was found half-conscious and bleeding on the kitchen floor, his mask cracked.
To the city, Arthur Ardel was a legend — a name engraved in glass and gold, a man whose music echoed through cafés and concert halls. To me, he was a tyrant. A sculptor who mistook flesh for marble, forcing me into the shape of his dead son. I was never Aubrey. I was an echo of Alex, a replacement in training.
I hated them both — my father for demanding perfection, and Alex for abandoning me with the burden of his memory. Resentment became my inheritance.
People love a tragedy when it's not their own.They'd whisper in the streets, "That's Arthur Ardel's boy — the one whose brother killed himself."As if grief were gossip.As if money could ransom the dead.
I thought about dying more times than I can count. I wanted silence — not peace, just an end to the noise. But fear kept me tethered. Fear of pain. Fear of what waited beyond.
And then, I met her.
"Dread walks beside hope; hope walks alongside fear," she told me once, when I called her my hope. I didn't understand it then, but now I do. Hope and fear are twins — they keep you alive, even when all you want is to die.
I must've dozed off again, because the next time I opened my eyes, Michael was standing in my doorway. Morning light framed him like a photograph. His brow was furrowed, his hand still on the knob, as though unsure whether to enter.
"What do you want?" My voice came out rough, heavy.
His eyes swept over my apartment — every corner, every shadow — searching for anything sharp, anything that might cut more than words.
"Relax," I muttered, rubbing my face. "I haven't tried anything since I converted."
The word converted hung between us, heavy and strange. I said it like it meant healing. It didn't. It meant survival.
Michael Morais — son of Francis Morais, the city's most sought-after architect. He and Alex were inseparable growing up. After Alex died, Michael drifted from me, from all of us. I thought grief had swallowed him too. Then one day, I learned he was working for my father.
Still, he was the one who found me that night. The one who called the ambulance. The one who never stopped showing up, even when I didn't want him to.
"Zoning out again?" he asked now, shaking my shoulder gently.
"What did you say?"
He sighed, patient as ever. "The show starts at eleven. Finalize your selections by nine. You'll have an hour to yourself before the interviews begin." His tone softened. "This is your chance, Aubrey. To show the world you. Not your father. Not Alex. Just you."
His words felt too heavy for morning.
I turned back to the window, to the blinding white of the city below. "I miss you, Ayah Ferdous," I whispered. The name still hurt to say.
The sunlight crept into the room, washing over the floor like gold dust. From up here — the thirtieth floor — the world looked fragile. Snow blanketed the streets, softening everything. For a fleeting second, I wondered what it would feel like to fall — to sink into that white quiet, to disappear.
But her voice always stopped me.She'd told me once that death is not rest; it's an unfinished story.
I used to believe her.
The gallery smelled faintly of paint and pinewood. Light streamed through the high windows, cutting through the air like ribbons. My reflection stared back at me from the glass frames — red coat, black collar, slicked hair. I looked like a man rehearsing how to be alive.
Michael was beside me, papers in hand, perfectly composed as always. The closer we got to the exhibition, the tighter my chest became.
Ayah had fought for this — fought my father, fought the world, fought me. She was the reason I picked up a brush again.
Reporters buzzed like flies, cameras clicking, voices echoing through the hall. For the first time, I wasn't holding a violin. I wasn't pretending to be my brother. I was surrounded by my creations — a hundred strokes of grief, colour, and longing. Each painting was a confession, a prayer, a scream.
I laughed suddenly when I saw Alex's face hanging among them. Michael looked at me, confused, but I couldn't help it. For once, I felt like my brother was there — not haunting me, but watching over me.
The applause began before I even spoke. It was deafening.I stood still, letting it wash over me like a tide.
When I used to play the violin, I never felt the music. My fingers moved, the bow sang, the crowd roared — but inside, I was hollow. The tears I shed on stage weren't from passion. They were from the emptiness. People said I poured my soul into every note. The truth is, I had no soul left to give.
But painting… painting bled differently. It hurt. It healed. And through it, I could almost hear her laugh again.
I remember our last day together. The fireworks over the hill. Her hand in mine. The promise we made to never let go. She looked at me like I was the safest place in the world — and I believed her.
Now, as I stand in this gallery, surrounded by her colours, her memory, her fight, I realize she never truly left.
Today, the world would finally hear our story — not a fairytale, not a tragedy. Just two souls who collided too hard, too briefly.
We were almost a story.