I froze mid-step as I opened the gallery door, the sharp scent of varnish and old paint hitting me first. A cork popped somewhere in the room, and the tinkle of glasses collided with murmurs of "Oh, how beautiful!" and "Simply breathtaking." My heels clicked against the marble floor as I walked further in, trying not to look like a stranger in my own exhibition.
The gallery was buzzing with Barcelona's elite. Men in sleek suits, women in shimmering gowns — all circling the paintings like moths to a flame. I forced my shoulders back, lifted my chin, and moved toward the heart of the room, glass of cava untouched in my hand.
Behind me, hanging like a shadow I couldn't shake off, was my father's last painting. The girl in red. Her hands covered in blood, standing beneath a crumbling arch, candle flickering in the storm behind her. I'd restored it, yes, but it felt like the painting was watching me back, like it had a story it wasn't ready to tell.
"Seraphina, this piece," a woman's voice drew my attention. She stepped closer, her pearl earrings catching the dim lights. "It's… haunting."
"It was my father's," I said, keeping my voice steady, though my heart thumped faster. "Untitled. Recovered from storage after his death. I restored it."
"It feels… unfinished," she whispered, tilting her head.
I shook my head slowly. "It's not. He just didn't want it to be understood."
She nodded, murmured something about interpretation, and drifted away. I let my expression harden as soon as she left. The painting had appeared six months ago, without warning, unsigned, no records. And then I'd seen it — the tiny mark, the candle wrapped in thorns. My father's secret.
And the girl in the painting had my eyes.
I shook my head as the lights dimmed for my closing remarks. Stepping forward, I folded my hands and cleared my throat.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," I said. "This exhibition explores the silence between brushstrokes — the stories we inherit without asking for them."
Polite applause. I went through the rest of the speech automatically, the words hollow in my mouth. Afterwards, guests shook my hand, complimented me, and handed me business cards I would never use.
Everyone approached me — except him.
He was across the room, half-hidden beneath a carved balcony. Tall, dark, sharp. His eyes didn't just watch; they measured. I forced myself not to stare. He lingered too long, and then slipped away into the crowd, leaving me uneasy.
When the gallery emptied and silence settled like dust, I moved closer to the painting. I traced the girl's candle with my fingers. Something felt off. The texture of the canvas wasn't even. My nails found a seam at the edge. My pulse raced as I pried it open, revealing a folded piece of aged paper.
Six words, written in my father's shaky handwriting:
"This is not art. It's a map."
My stomach dropped. My hands trembled so badly I almost dropped the note.
"What… what is it a map to?" I whispered.
The gallery door creaked behind me. I spun around. Empty. Only shadows stretched along the walls.
I sank to my knees in front of the painting, staring at the candle wrapped in thorns. My mind raced. Did it mean something real? A treasure? A secret? My father had never been the type to leave games behind.
A sudden sound — footsteps outside on the cobblestone street — made me freeze. My heartbeat echoed in my ears.
I stood slowly, gripping the note in one hand, my other pressed against the frame. Whoever was outside wasn't just a passerby. I could feel it. Eyes. Watching. Waiting.
Across the street, under the shadows of wrought iron balconies, someone did watch. Nico Romano. I didn't know his name yet, but I felt him like a weight pressing down on me. He lit a cigarette with gloved fingers and exhaled slowly.
"She's found it," he muttered to someone behind him.
A man in a dark coat stepped closer. "Do we move tonight?"
"No," Nico said, eyes still fixed on the gallery. "Let her wonder. Let her worry. She'll come to us."
He crushed the cigarette under his boot and vanished into the night.
I didn't see him leave. My fingers were still clutching the note. I couldn't stop looking at the painting, the girl in red, my own eyes staring back at me.
Then — a noise. A whisper of movement inside the gallery.
I spun around again. Shadows shifted near the corners. My pulse slammed in my ears. Something was there. I could feel it.
The note trembled in my hands. The girl in red seemed to move under my gaze.
And then a voice, low and unfamiliar, whispered from the dark:
"You've found it."
I screamed.