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Inside, the air smelled of hay and dust and something else—turpentine, maybe, or linseed oil. Light fell in long, dusty columns through gaps in the roof. And that was when she saw them.
“That’s my mother,” he said quietly. “She died when I was twelve. I’ve been painting her ever since, trying to get the light right. The way it fell on her face in the morning when she’d make tea. I’ve painted her three hundred and eleven times. And I still haven’t gotten it right.”
“What?”
She looked up.
She was not, by nature, a person who believed in signs. But when she looked up and saw the barn—set back from the road, half-hidden by weeping willows—something in her chest tightened. It was the kind of structure that seemed to have grown from the earth rather than been built upon it: weathered cedar planks gone silver, a cupola listing slightly to the right, one window boarded and the other left open to the dark.
She pointed to the corner of the canvas, where the shadows pooled darkest. “There. In the dark. You can just barely see it—the outline of a door. Open.”
Inside, the air smelled of hay and dust and something else—turpentine, maybe, or linseed oil. Light fell in long, dusty columns through gaps in the roof. And that was when she saw them.
“That’s my mother,” he said quietly. “She died when I was twelve. I’ve been painting her ever since, trying to get the light right. The way it fell on her face in the morning when she’d make tea. I’ve painted her three hundred and eleven times. And I still haven’t gotten it right.”
“What?”
She looked up.
She was not, by nature, a person who believed in signs. But when she looked up and saw the barn—set back from the road, half-hidden by weeping willows—something in her chest tightened. It was the kind of structure that seemed to have grown from the earth rather than been built upon it: weathered cedar planks gone silver, a cupola listing slightly to the right, one window boarded and the other left open to the dark.
She pointed to the corner of the canvas, where the shadows pooled darkest. “There. In the dark. You can just barely see it—the outline of a door. Open.”