The Exhibition
The marble floor gleamed like frozen water, flawless enough to catch my reflection as I walked. The air smelled faintly of roses and varnish, a blend of beauty and preservation — fitting, perhaps, for a place that tried to immortalize what had already been lost. Each step echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling, and every echo reminded me that I was still here — alive, unwillingly so.
The walls rose like cathedral pillars, Renaissance mouldings unfurling in golden arcs. The chandelier above was a constellation of crystal, scattering light into a thousand trembling stars. Rows of vases overflowed with red and white roses, their perfume saturating the air until even the building seemed to breathe nostalgia.
I passed my paintings — three to a wall — and for a moment, the world hushed.
The Trio hung first: three children with arms around each other, uniforms crooked, laughter bright enough to make time pause. I could almost hear it again — that weightless laughter, untainted by grief. Next came our backyard — swan, pond, lilies — painted from memory, though I've never seen water that still since. And the last… Alex. My brother's portrait. His eyes followed me, alive in pigment, too knowing, too real. I had painted him as I remembered him before death stole his warmth.
Soft instrumental music spilled from the main hall, trembling through the marble like a heartbeat. I closed my eyes. In the flicker of imagination, two lovers appeared — 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 — a phantom warmth threading through my fingers. I could almost hear her whisper against my shoulder, "Ardel, you are doing exceptionally well."
A small, tired smile touched my lips. She was the one who left. I was the one who stayed — waiting for a reunion that could only happen beyond breath.
Each morning when sunlight slit through the blinds, I felt her again — the ghost of warmth beside me, the echo 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. Those who stop knocking aren't cowards — they're simply tired. 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 would 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 — a cathedral of light.
Michael stood at the entrance, posture crisp, welcoming guests with that calm efficiency that had always made him seem older than he was. The sound of footsteps multiplied until the marble itself seemed to thrum. People entered in clusters — polished shoes, sequined gowns, champagne laughter that felt too alive for the dead I carried.
They paused before my work — some teary, some calculating, others already searching for flaws. My throat tightened. It wasn't their judgment I feared. It was the possibility that someone might understand.
Compliments brushed past like wind — meaningless, fleeting. I smiled anyway. Seven years hidden away, painting in solitude, screaming into silence, and now here I was — drowned in light. The Aubrey Ardel 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 glowing under the chandelier. Beside him stood Hayat, her husband Aaban, and little Noor — clutching a balloon nearly her size.
"How could I miss my son-in-law's exhibition?" he said, eyes bright with pride.
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, rolling her eyes. Aaban nodded solemnly, the picture of spousal alliance.
"Let her have another," Mr. Ferdous protested with mock outrage. "A little sweetness never hurt anyone."
Noor's grin could've outshone the chandelier.
And in that tiny, ordinary exchange — that teasing, that tenderness — I understood something I had been painting toward for years.
Love isn't the grand gesture. It's the quiet persistence — a breakfast cooked half-awake, a blanket tucked higher, a small rebellion in favour 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, his rings glittering like small suns. His voice rang out, rich with self-importance, praising his company's "commitment to discovering brilliance" while advertising it all the same. I barely heard him. My heart was beating too loudly.
"And now," he declared, "our young star — Mr. Aubrey Ardel!"
Applause surged. A wave of sound so physical it seemed to shake the air. My father-in-law's whistle pierced through, joyous and proud. Michael nudged me toward the stage.
The microphone was heavier than I remembered. The light — too bright. Faces blurred into a sea of color and sound. For a heartbeat, the walls leaned closer, and the air thinned.
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 faint laugh rippled through the audience. I smiled too, gently. "She found beauty in everything I'd given up on. She tore down my walls, brick by brick, until the world began to make sense again. We fell in love — impossibly, irrevocably — and denied it for as long as we could."
My throat constricted. The lights shimmered. "True loves," I whispered, "can never stay apart."
The crowd blurred. The room spun. I couldn't breathe. Panic rose like water in my chest. Michael moved first — steady, efficient — guiding me offstage. Aaban's arm anchored me, Hayat's voice breaking with concern.
Onstage, two men wheeled out the veiled painting — the masterpiece I had worked seven years for. The audience leaned forward, breath held.
"I can't do this," I gasped. "You unveil it, Michael."
He shook his head. "No. This is yours."
"I can't," I repeated, voice cracking.
Then — a voice behind me. Calm. Familiar. Unmistakable.
"Yes, you can."
I turned.
Arthur Ardel stood there — immaculate suit, silvered hair, eyes the same green as mine. The crowd gasped; two Ardels in one place, 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 all at once.
I rose. The hall fell utterly silent. Every heartbeat was thunder in my chest.
My fingers found the corner of the red silk. This was more than an unveiling. It was confession. Resurrection. Surrender.
The veil slipped away in one slow, trembling motion.
Light struck the canvas.
And the world held its breath.