Chapter 35: A Gallery of Memories

Chapter 35: A Gallery of Memories
When Vanya stepped into the dining room, Damian was already seated at the end of the table, wearing a simple black shirt that contrasted with his pale skin. His gaze briefly turned as Vanya entered, but quickly refocused on the cup in his hands.
"Breakfast first?" he asked tersely.
Vanya simply nodded and sat across from him. A servant came to serve toast, fruit jam, and orange juice. The atmosphere was silent, punctuated only by the soft clinking of cutlery. Vanya watched Damian, trying to read his mind, which always felt like a maze.
"Where are you taking me after this?" Vanya asked, breaking the silence once she had finished her toast.
"To a secret place," he answered, setting down his cup. A faint shadow of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "You'll like it."
A few minutes later, they were in Damian's black car. The engine purred softly, carrying them away from the villa that had been Vanya's entire world. The roads began to change from a small town's asphalt to a rocky path surrounded by lush trees. Vanya watched her surroundings, which all seemed very foreign, as if she were in a part of the world she had never set foot in before.
The air grew cooler as they arrived in front of an old building with a large wooden door, tightly shut as if it held secrets. Above it was a faded wooden sign that read "Divna Gallery."
Damian got out first, then opened the door for Vanya. "Welcome to my hidden art gallery," he whispered.
A middle-aged man in a neat suit greeted them at the entrance. His face exuded a warm friendliness, as if he had known Damian for a long time.
"Welcome, Mr. Volkov," he said with a slight bow. "The gallery has been prepared for you. Please enjoy your time."
After ensuring the entrance door was locked again from the outside, the man left the two of them, giving them space as if the entire gallery belonged only to them.
Vanya stood frozen in front of the silent room. Natural light streamed in through the glass ceiling, illuminating every corner. Large paintings hung on the walls. Portraits, landscapes, and black-and-white sketches that appeared to have been done with an emotional hand. The faint aroma of oil paint still lingered, mixed with the scent of old wood from the polished floor.
"Damian... this is amazing," Vanya whispered, stepping slowly, her eyes scanning each work of art. Her hand even rose slightly, almost wanting to touch one of the canvases, but she stopped herself, afraid of damaging it.
Damian stood behind her, his hands in his pants pockets. "This is my family's private gallery. Not many people have ever been in here."
Vanya turned, a little surprised. "Your family?"
Damian walked closer, his steps calm but carrying the weight of memories. He stopped in front of a large painting of a young woman in a white dress, sitting in a garden holding a book. The light in the painting was so vivid, as if a real afternoon sun was shining on the model.
"That's my mother," Damian said softly. His voice lowered, almost as if he were whispering to himself. "She was a great painter... and a very strong woman."
Vanya moved closer, looking at the painting more carefully. "She's so beautiful... She has a warm and gentle aura."
Damian gave a faint smile, but behind it was something heavy. "My mother believed that art is a way to remember. Even when everything we love is gone. She said... every brushstroke holds a trace of the heart that never fades."
A brief silence followed. Vanya looked down, feeling something in her chest. An intimacy was growing between them, not from touch, but from the words and honesty Damian was sharing.
They moved to the next room. The paintings there were darker, with a dramatic color palette. Deep reds, solid blacks, and haunting shadows.
"These are works by other painters that I've collected," Damian said, stroking the surface of a frame. "I have a different perspective from my mother. I see the world as a harsh place, full of secrets, and art for me is a form of escape."
Vanya noticed the firm strokes on the canvases. There was anger, there was sadness, but there was also a strange, captivating strength. "It seems... every painting here has a story that not everyone can understand."
Damian looked at her, his gaze deep. "You understand, Vanya. That's what makes you different."
The words made Vanya fall silent. There was something in his tone. Not just a compliment, but a confession. It was as if Damian had just opened a door to a part of his life he had never shared with anyone else.
They stopped in a corner of the gallery, where only one small painting was displayed alone. It depicted a calm sea under a twilight sky. The colors were soft, different from all the other works.
Damian smiled faintly. "My mother. This is her last painting."
Vanya's eyes widened. "Her last painting?"
"Yes. She painted this on the last day she was with me. She said the sea is like the human heart. Sometimes calm, sometimes stormy, but always holding an unseen depth." Damian stared at the painting for a long time, then took a breath.
Vanya felt something warm yet painful crawl in her chest. She wanted to reach out, to touch Damian, but could only look at him.
Damian turned, and for a moment, their eyes met. There were no words, but the air between them felt thick with emotion.
"Thank you for bringing me here," Vanya said softly.
Damian only gave a faint smile, then walked to a large window at the end of the room. "You know... some people see this gallery as just a collection of art. But for me, this is a home for everything I've ever loved."
They walked on, exploring another corner. Their footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor, the scent of oil paint and old wood filling the air. Vanya walked slowly, her eyes sweeping over the walls filled with beautiful paintings. But something made her stop. In the corner of the room, under a carved wooden table, she saw the edge of a canvas slightly tucked away.
Curiously, she knelt and pulled it out. A thin layer of dust clung to the frame, as if it hadn't been touched in a long time. As soon as she flipped the painting over, her breath hitched. A boy of about seven years old stared out from the canvas. His eyes were sad, but his lips held a faint smile. The brushstrokes were so personal, almost like a whisper from the heart. In the bottom corner was an unfamiliar signature: Volkov. Damian's father?
"Damian..." Vanya's voice was a whisper. "This...?"
Damian, who was standing not far from her, turned. His gaze froze when he saw the painting in Vanya's hands.
"That's... me," he said, his voice hoarse. "My father painted this... a day before they... put me in that rehabilitation center."