Chapter 158: The World Continues to Call

This place was meant to be silent.

When we left the city, exchanged the gala lights for starry sky, and closed the last chapter of our public life, Damon and I made that commitment to one another. However, I'm discovering that serenity is brittle. And even after you've said goodbye, the world—especially ours—has a way of grabbing hold of you.

Curled up in the big sweater Damon likes to steal when I'm not looking, I was sitting on the porch. The trees that surrounded our remote house spoke quietly, perhaps protecting our haven from the early morning mist. My sketchbook was open on my lap, with incomplete charcoal drawings depicting the lake's dormant form outside our yard.

Behind me, barefoot and with two coffee cups, Damon emerged. The silence surrounding us was broken by a single glance at his face.

"Emma," he whispered in a low, heavy voice. "You need to see this."

The wood felt cold underfoot as we followed him inside, both of us barefoot. Headlines glowed on the screen over the mantel.

ATTACK ON GLOBAL CULTURAL HERITAGE

Large art schools were plundered. Cultural sites of great value were destroyed. Where there was once tranquility, now are whispers of conflict.

It was more than simply art. It isn't. For people who are afraid of the truth, art is harmful. And it was being silenced by someone out there.

"Is the Foundation involved?" My heart was already pounding as I asked.

Damon gave a nod. "This morning we received a phone call. There was a raid on one of our partners in Istanbul. They ruined everything.

Stunned, I sat. An exhibit intended to promote understanding between divided groups was on display at the gallery. Its artists were survivors, peacemakers. Their creations were more than merely exquisite. It was courageous.

"They’re calling it targeted," he continued. "And your name is attached to half the installations."

With the weight of everything on my chest, I let out a deep breath. Even though we had given so much—love, art, and time—the world still needed us. Additionally, it's possible that we weren't finished with it.

I made a video call to Noor, the new director of the Foundation, later that night. Her voice was hoarse, and her eyes were swollen.

Her words, "They took everything," "Even the children’s wall."

My stomach turned. I had thought about that wall. A place where youthful voices may be heard and refugee children can create their aspirations.

"Noor, what do you need from us?"

She paused. "We assured you that we wouldn't drag you back in. But really? You two are essential to us. Not only your names, either. Your voices are needed. Your presence. Their goal is to eradicate empathy. We must remind everyone of its importance.

I looked at the flames after shutting off the television. Damon was observing me already.

"You want to go," was all he said.

"What we've created here is something I don't want to lose. But the sort of world we fought for is being destroyed by them.

His brow furrowed in contemplation, he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

"After that, we don't return. We proceed. according to our terms."

This guy, who had formerly wandered in the shadows but now blazed with purpose, caught my attention.

"What are you thinking?"

"A summit in real time. We broadcast it. Invite leaders, artists, educators. From here, not in some marble hall. Allow them to approach us. Let the world see the creation of art.

It had ambition. dangerous. However, it could just work.

Our peaceful getaway was altered in a matter of days. Our previous squad gathered once the equipment came. News networks conjectured, social media hummed, and the murmurs turned into a roar.

THE LEGACY RETURNS

But not everyone was pleased.

I received the following anonymous message in my private inbox:

Keep silent. Or they won't only trash your artwork.

I kept it from Damon. Not quite yet. Not while he was devoting himself to preparation. He had to think that we could do this without watching us closely.

The meadow behind our house was changed on the day of the broadcast. Artworks recovered from bombed galleries were kept under tents. Under the trees, kids painted on long white sheets. Even the most cynical guests were hushed by Damon's opening remarks at the meeting.

Then it was my turn when the sun went down. My heart was pounding as I stood in front of cameras, friends, and strangers.

With a trembling voice, I added, "They tried to silence the expression," However, here we are. Still talking. I'm still dreaming. Beauty, not guns, is still being used in the struggle.

There was loud applause. However, it was unable to overpower the deep grumble in my stomach, which was a warning or instinct.

I went alone to the ancient tree at the border of our land that evening after the summit was over, the meadow was empty, and the lights had gone down. It had always been a peaceful spot to reflect.

I wasn't alone.

A silhouette emerged from the darkness. hooded. Known.

"I warned you," said the voice.

My blood became icy.

"You should've stayed in the dark."

Something metallic glinted in the moonlight before I could reply.

Then everything became dark.