I hesitated… then pushed it open.
And froze.
Every wall was covered in portraits—hundreds of them—of the same woman at different stages of life. She was laughing in some, crying in others, sleeping, angry, soft… deeply human.
In the corners of many paintings were dates.
Some were in the future.
I stepped closer and took one down, studying it carefully.
“Who is she?”
“Sweetheart,” Henry’s voice came from behind me, trembling, “I told you not to come in here.”
“Who is this woman, Henry?”
He looked terrified.
“Answer me. These paintings—who is she?”
He swallowed hard. “I paint… to hold on to time.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you not to come in here.”
“Please. Just trust me.”
“Trust you? You’ve been painting another woman for years! Who is she? Your mistress? Did you decide to cheat on me in your old age?”
“Rosie, it’s not what you think.”
“Then explain it.”
He hesitated. “I will. It’s a long story, and you may not believe me. But you deserve the truth… just not today.”
“After sixty years, you still can’t tell me?”
