I’ve never wanted to avoid darkness in my own work, my own darkness. But revealing my own shadows is not enough in itself. What I want, what I’ve always wanted, is for another person to feel relief from their darkness when they look at my work.

The Little Owl doesn’t affect me the way it once did. It leaves no mark, no lasting impression. We can’t hold on to feelings forever. The violin echoing from Pete’s room stirs me from the print.

I look up the staircase. I don’t think I’ve ever been up there. It must be where Shelley goes at night.

Hanging on the wall of the staircase is another framed painting. I have to step up on the first stair to get a good look at it. Like The Little Owl, it’s another print I recognize from long ago. A famous double portrait from the Italian Renaissance. Oil on wood. Painted by Piero della Francesca. The Duke and Duchess of Montefeltro, both in profile, looking at each other. She died in childbirth, such a short life.

He told me about this portrait one night not long after we’d first met. He explained everything—the context, symbolism, the style, details about the artist. He knew so much about art.

It was around that time he left for Europe for over a month. He asked me to water his plants, which I did. He loved those plants. His studio space was filled with them. I watered them all except for one. It died. I lied and told him I didn’t know what had happened to it. I thought he was going to be very upset. He wasn’t. He forgot about it within a day.

I don’t know why I did it, why I starved his one plant. His not caring about the dead plant made me feel even worse. I spent more time looking after his plants after that, trying to nurture those left. They all lived, continued to grow, but over time I started to wish I hadn’t watered any of them. I started to believe that the one I hadn’t watered was the lucky one.

I bend down and find a spot on the wall to the left of the staircase, near the bottom, and using a hairpin, I scratch a single mark, one line, into the soft wood.

One mark, for me. If I forget, there will be proof. I’ll know that I’ve been here before.

I open my eyes, blinking, waking up on my own to an empty room.

I look at the sheet and blanket covering me, the outline of my legs and feet underneath. I wiggle my toes. Sunlight spills through the window and fills the room. The shadows from the trees dance on the bed, over me. It takes me some effort to roll over and swing my legs out of bed.

I slip my feet into my slippers. The big toe on my left foot pokes out of the tiny hole at the end of the slipper, as if the slippers have shrunk overnight. That can’t be. I pull on them, trying to stretch them, but no matter how I position my foot, the slipper feels tighter.