I laugh, the sound echoing across the silent space. Tucked under one of the treats is another piece of paper.

Emma,

If you’re reading this, you found the first path.

You can see where it leads to. An exit.

Literally and metaphorically.

How we proceed from here up to you, Sunflower.

The choice is yours.

No hard feelings. No resentment.

Out the door, no questions asked, and I’ll always remember our time together.

It was magical. Spectacular. Special.

You’re special, baby, and I could never, ever hate you, no matter what you decide. I promise.

Your other option?

Pick up one of these homemade cookies.

Yeah, I made them myself.

(You’re more fun to cook with, though)

Turn around.

And follow the sunflowers.

I’ll see you soon.

Here’s my sign.

It doesn’t get any more obvious.

Henry.

He’s what I want.

He’s what I need.

I’ve never moved so swiftly in my life.

I spin on my heel, following the flowers. My shoes squeak as I hurry into the main exhibition hall, another space coated in yellow.

“Hello?” I call out.

A sound around the corner causes me to jump. I whip around, the hair on the back of my neck standing up in alarm. On the other side of the hall stands Henry.

“Hi, honey,” he says weakly, voice traveling across the room. Even with the distance, I can hear him as clear as day. Neither of us move toward the other, staying frozen in our positions, the tension thick and palpable.

There’s so much to say. Where do I start? How do I begin?

Do I yell first? Curse and scream and let out all of my pent-up anger?

Do I run into his arms and embrace him, letting him kiss me and whisper apologies in my ear?

Henry clears his throat and takes a step toward the center of the room, the first to attack. My eyes follow his every move. I think he’s waiting for me to stop him. Waiting for me to halt his advancement.

I don’t.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, his chin dipping as his hand shakes, beginning to speak.

“‘I thought I loved you months ago, but since my separation from you, I feel that I love you a thousand-fold more. Each day since I knew you, have I adored you more and more.’ Napoleon to Josephine.” His foot taps against the old floor, a nervous energy radiating from him before he continues.

“‘You don’t realize of course, E.B., how fascinatingly beautiful you have always been, and how strong you have acquired an added and special and dangerous loveliness.’ Richard Burton to Elizabeth T—”

“Taylor,” I finish for him. He smiles without meeting my gaze, attention firmly glued to the piece of paper.