The storm had moved inland, but the smell of rain still clung to the warehouse.
Leona stood by the table where the frame lay under its muslin shroud, camera in one hand, phone light trembling in the other.
Caleb was checking the locks. Metal against metal, soft, steady—ritual more than caution.
"You're still here," he said without turning.
"You too," she answered.
"Someone should watch it breathe."
He straightened, brushing damp hair from his forehead. His shirt sleeves were rolled again, exposing the kind of forearms that always looked halfway between work and prayer.
Leona ignored the thought, but not fast enough. "I can set up a motion recorder," she said. "Infrared, low-light—if it moves, we'll see it."
"If it moves, we'll feel it."
The reply wasn't arrogance; it was the certainty of someone who'd learned the language of objects the hard way.
Lightning flickered through the skylight, whitening everything for a heartbeat. The muslin cloth quivered—not from wind, but from something inward, a breath trying to remember its shape.
Leona steadied her phone, hit record, and whispered, "Second observation, 22:14 hours."
"Add the sound," Caleb said. "Storm interference, one flash, no thunder yet."
He spoke like a field notebook that occasionally smiled.
They waited. Seconds passed, counted only by their breathing. When thunder finally arrived—late, low, tired—the cloth lifted once, as though exhaling relief.
Leona's voice cracked the silence. "You said frames remember pressure. What about attention?"
"Worse," Caleb said. "Attention teaches them to perform."
"So we're the audience."
"Or the accomplices."
She lowered the phone. "You're not afraid."
"I'm always afraid. I've just made peace with what fear costs."
She liked that. Too much.
He moved closer to the table, fingertips hovering above the cloth but not touching.
"This was built before the flood," he murmured. "See how the joints lean? Old carpentry never lies. It carries confession in the grain."
"That word again," she said. "Confession."
"Everything worth restoring begins with one."
Leona almost laughed. "You talk like a sermon."
"And you listen like someone waiting to disobey it."
She looked up sharply. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you'll touch it again."
He wasn't wrong. The urge pulsed through her fingers, absurd and magnetic. The thing under the cloth had weight beyond logic, the same pull as standing too near a cliff and wondering how wind feels on the way down.
Instead of touching it, she circled the table. "What if we uncover it?"
"Then it knows it's being watched."
"Good. Maybe it will tell us why it breathes."
He hesitated, studying her the way scientists study weather they secretly admire. Then he lifted the corner of the cloth.
The air shifted. Warm, dry, metallic.
Underneath lay the same gold frame—ornate, bruised by time, every carved edge holding a whisper of light. The canvas inside showed nothing at first: a river bend in fog, brushstrokes thin as veins. But the longer she looked, the clearer the image became—trees bending toward the water, a half-collapsed bridge, and at the far right edge, a small figure with its face turned away.
Leona stepped closer. "That wasn't there before."
"Memory plays tricks," Caleb said.
"No. The reflection changed."
"You're certain?"
"Enough to be uneasy."
He nodded once, then looked toward the camera she'd set up on the shelf.
"Record from this angle. I want to see if the light favors one side."
She adjusted it, lens pointed at the figure by the bridge. Caleb dimmed the hanging bulb, leaving only the gray wash of lightning. The painting deepened, colors drawing breath from shadow. The figure's outline sharpened—hands raised, as if signaling for help or warning.
Leona's pulse stuttered. "Caleb…"
"I see it."
"It's facing us."
The figure's head had turned, just enough for the idea of an eye to exist. The storm outside thinned to drizzle, as though the world had leaned closer to listen.
Caleb exhaled. "Back away."
"If we move, it might—"
"Back away."
His tone made obedience sound like instinct. They stepped out from the frame's glow. The air cooled again, too fast. The figure blurred back into paint.
For a while neither spoke. Only the clock resumed, shy and apologetic.
Finally Leona said, "You didn't flinch."
"Neither did you."
"I was too busy remembering how to breathe."
He smiled—small, reluctant. "That's the challenge, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"Keeping our pulse slower than theirs."
He turned the cloth back over the painting and secured it with deliberate care. "Enough for tonight."
"You'll come back tomorrow."
"We both will," he said. "You brought it awake. I have to see what it does with morning."
She wanted to argue, but the idea of leaving it alone felt worse. "Then we watch at dawn."
Caleb locked the door again, testing the handle twice. The storm had gone; only rainwater trickled along the gutters like a conversation cooling.
He handed her a small flashlight. "In case the power dies on your way home."
"That a habit of yours—handing out light?"
"Only to people who go looking for the dark."
She pocketed it, unsure whether to thank him.
Outside, the street shone mirror-wet. The air smelled of tin and hibiscus. She walked beside him toward the parked car, neither of them speaking for half a block.
"You still think it's just heat expansion?" she asked finally.
"I think names don't matter until we've earned them."
"And what name would you give tonight?"
"Unwise," he said, "but necessary."
She laughed softly. The sound startled a bird from a power line.
When they reached her corner, he stopped. "Don't dream about it."
"I don't get to choose."
"Then at least write down what it says."
She looked at him, trying to read whether he was teasing or warning. His face offered both.
"See you at dawn," she said.
"If dawn agrees."
He turned away, coat collar high, footsteps already a rumor.
Leona watched him go, then looked back toward the warehouse. The windows reflected only the streetlights—but for an instant, one pane flickered gold.
She blinked. It was gone.
Back in her small apartment above the print shop, she replayed the recording. Nothing moved except lightning. No breathing cloth, no turning figure.
She frowned, rewound, watched again.
At the last second before thunder, a faint outline appeared behind her own reflection in the glass—another silhouette, standing just over her shoulder, hand raised, palm open.
Her stomach tightened. She paused the video and stared. The silhouette's hand looked smudged, but clear enough to show five uneven lines across the palm, like letters half-written.
She whispered into the quiet room, "What are you trying to say?"
The laptop screen dimmed. The file timestamp blinked from 22:14 to 22:17, though she hadn't touched anything. Then it froze.
Outside, thunder rolled again—soft, distant, the kind of sound that finds the inside of your bones.
Leona closed the laptop and sat very still, every light in the apartment flickering once as though echoing her pulse.
She reached for the flashlight Caleb had given her. It clicked on instantly, casting a circle of calm over the desk. The cloth pouch containing her camera lay beside it.
For no reason she could name, she whispered, "Goodnight."
Something beneath the fabric answered—a single, slow tap against the lens, like a heartbeat politely knocking to be remembered.