Every fortnight, I hold an exhibition. Perhaps I thought he'd show up. People from all around come to view my canvases.
And she never missed a single one of them. Celeste, my half-sister, my rival, my mirror turned sharp. She's everything I'm not: sharp where I'm soft, cold where I burn. She curates galleries, critiques art with precision, and wears her ambition like armor. Her world is clean lines and cold light. Mine is gold and grief.
She visits my studio. Not to see me to see him.
"Still painting your ghost?" she asked last week, circling my canvas like a hawk. "Still pretending it's talent when it's just obsession?"
I didn't answer. I never do.
Celeste once tried to paint him. The canvas cracked. And for a moment, she heard the thirteenth bell. She never speaks of it. But I think she remembers more than she admits. I can't help but always wonder what she saw.
See, Celeste and I are from two separate dads. my dad died when I was six. I can barely recall his face. My mom married her childhood friend, Kobby. Celeste and I used to be close. He was the best dad I had, but one afternoon, he disappeared and never showed up again. My mom was broken. She worked more. and soon we were neglected.
On my 13th Birthday, I saw my mom lying on the bed. not moving. I panicked, and she was gone.
I blame myself for that, I really do. But Celeste reminded me every moment, alternately, as time went on, I just let her talk.