Page 180 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

I turned back toward the paintings.

"My grandmother used to tell me every emotion had its own colour."

"My grandmother told me never to trust men with polished shoes."

"Were either of them, right?"

She looked around the gallery.

"I think mine was."

I laughed.

"So did mine."

She walked toward another enormous canvas hidden beneath black silk.

"My next exhibition opens in six months."

She gently removed the fabric. The unfinished painting beneath wasn't frightening. It was heartbreaking. Colours bled into one another without forming anything recognizable. Hope dissolves into grief. Love collapsing beneath guilt. Joy interrupted by panic. It made my chest ache.

"The collection is called Synaistimata," she said softly.

"It means emotions in Greek. I'm trying to paint what people refuse to say out loud."

I couldn't stop looking.

"They're alive."

"They're unfinished."

"They're perfect."

"They're neither."

She smiled.

"They're honest."

I turned toward her.

"I think we're going to make remarkable friends."

"I think so too."

For the first time in years... I believed it.

The drive back to Blackridge felt different. The mountains didn't seem quite as lonely. The silence inside my car wasn't empty anymore. It was peaceful. I caught your reflection in the passenger-side window as the forest swallowed the last traces of Hollow City behind me.

Making friends turns out to be considerably easier than people make it sound.

I rounded another bend.

The trick isn't finding normal people. It’s accepting that normal people are terribly boring.

My fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel.

Persephone never asked what I do for work. She never asked whether I'm seeing anyone. She never asked where I went to university. Instead, she asked whether I thought grief had a smell...whether ghosts get lonely...and whether I'd rather be remembered fondly or remembered forever.