Chapter 109 The Art Room
Hannah
I don’t know where I’m going.
I just know I need to get away.
My feet carry me quickly down the hallway, past doors I don’t recognize, past polished floors and quiet corners that all look the same. My vision is slightly blurred, not enough to stop me from walking, but enough that everything feels distant. Like I’m not fully here.
My chest still feels tight.
Like I didn’t say everything I wanted to.
Like I said too much.
Like I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
I let out a shaky breath as I turn another corner.
This house is too big.
Too unfamiliar.
Too suffocating.
I slow down eventually, my steps faltering as I realize I have no idea where I am anymore.
Great.
Lost and emotional.
Perfect combination.
I let out a small, humorless laugh under my breath.
Then I push open the nearest door I see.
And freeze.
The room is… huge.
Wide and open, with high ceilings and soft lighting that casts a warm glow over everything inside.
For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.
Then it clicks.
An art gallery.
Paintings line the walls, sculptures placed carefully across the room, each piece spaced deliberately like it has its own story to tell.
It’s quiet here.
Peaceful.
Like the rest of the house doesn’t exist.
I step inside slowly, closing the door behind me.
And just like that, everything I’ve been holding in crashes over me again.
My knees give way before I can stop it.
I crouch down, my arms wrapping around myself as the tears come.
Hot.
Unstoppable.
Ugly.
I press a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t help much. My shoulders shake as I cry, the frustration and humiliation and anger all spilling out at once.
“God…” I whisper shakily.
I don’t even know what I’m upset about the most.
Yvonne.
Her words.
The way she looked at me.
The way she made me feel like I didn’t belong.
Like I was something that had been forced into a space that wasn’t mine.
And maybe she’s right. And I know she is. This whole thing…
I squeeze my eyes shut.
No.
I can’t go down that path.
Not now.
Not here.
I take a shaky breath.
Then another.
Slowly, the storm inside me starts to settle.
The tears don’t stop immediately, but they quiet.
Fade.
Until I’m just left sitting there, sniffling softly, wiping at my face with the back of my hand.
“This is embarrassing,” I mutter under my breath.
I stay there for a few seconds longer.
Then I push myself up.
I smooth down my dress, wipe under my eyes carefully, and take a deep breath.
Okay.
You’re fine.
You’re okay.
I look around the room properly this time.
And something about it pulls me in.
I take a step forward.
Then another.
My fingers trail lightly along the edge of a frame as I pass one painting, then another.
There’s something comforting about it.
The silence.
The stillness.
The way each piece seems to exist in its own world, untouched by everything outside.
I stop in front of one painting.
Tilt my head slightly.
Study it.
It’s abstract.
Bold strokes of color layered over each other—deep blues, sharp whites, streaks of gold cutting through like light breaking into darkness.
It feels chaotic at first glance.
But the longer I look at it…
The more it makes sense.
“It’s not chaos,” I murmur softly.
“It’s conflict.”
I step closer.
“There’s structure underneath it. You just have to look past the surface.”
My fingers twitch slightly at my side, like I want to reach out and touch it.
I don’t.
But I want to.
I move on slowly, taking my time with each piece.
A sculpture next.
Cold marble shaped into something almost human, but not quite. The expression is unfinished, like the artist stopped halfway through an emotion.
I smile faintly.
“That’s intentional,” I whisper.
“They didn’t want to define it.”
Piece after piece, I move through the room.
And somewhere along the way, I forget.
Not completely. But enough. Enough that the tightness in my chest eases. Enough that my breathing evens out. Enough that time slips away from me without notice.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here when I hear it.
“Hannah?”
My head snaps up.
Timothy.
His voice echoes slightly through the room.
I turn toward the door just as he steps in.
He pauses when he sees me.
And something in his expression softens. Relief. Clear as day.
“There you are,” he says, exhaling slightly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
My chest tightens again.
But this time, it’s different.
“I got lost,” I admit with a small smile.
His gaze scans my face briefly.
Checking.
Looking for signs of something
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
“I’m fine.”
And for once, I actually mean it. I gesture him over.
“Come here.”
He hesitates for half a second, then walks over.
I turn back to the painting in front of me.
“This one,” I say, pointing at it. “Look at it properly.”
He does.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Silent.
Then he glances at me.
“It’s… abstract.”
I huff a small laugh.
“Yes, thank you for that very insightful observation.”
His lips twitch.
I step closer to the painting again, gesturing as I speak.
“It looks chaotic, right? Like there’s no order to it. But there is.”
I point to a section.
“See this? The way the colors overlap? That’s not random. It’s layered deliberately to create tension.”
I move slightly, pointing at another part.
“And here, this break in the pattern? That’s release. Like the artist is letting the piece breathe.”
I glance at him.
“They’re telling a story without making it obvious.”
He watches me.
Really watches me.
So I keep going.
“It’s about conflict. Internal, probably. The kind you can’t explain properly, so you just… feel it instead.”
I shrug lightly.
“Or maybe I’m completely wrong and the artist just threw paint at a canvas and called it a day.”
He lets out a quiet huff of laughter.
I smile.
“But I don’t think so.”
There’s a pause.
Then…“That was… unexpectedly profound.”
I blink at him.
“Unexpectedly?”
He lifts a shoulder slightly.
“I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Rude.”
He smiles faintly.
“This gallery,” he says after a moment, glancing around, “is Yvonne’s. She collects.”
That makes me pause. “Oh.” That was unexpected. My mouth sours at her name. I look around again, struggling to see it differently now.
Then I glance back at him.
“Well,” I say lightly, “she has good taste.” I say begrudgingly.
He hums.
Then adds, “If my thing is space… I guess yours is this.”
I smile softly.
“Yeah.”
It is.
For a moment, we just stand there.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
Then he checks his watch.
“We should go,” he says. “It’s time.”
I nod.
“Okay.”
We walk out together, back through the halls I barely remember passing through.
This time, I don’t feel lost.
We reach the front.
His father is there.
Waiting.
Yvonne is nowhere in sight.
Good.
We exchange brief goodbyes.
Polite.
Controlled.
Then we step outside.
The night air hits my face, cool and grounding.
The car door opens.
We get in.
And as the estate fades into nothingness behind us, I feel a weight lift off my shoulders.