Behind the gallery's single counter sits a woman who calls herself Kestrel. She never blinks. She offers you tea that tastes like low tide and memory. She asks:
Port Haven Gallery doesn't exist on any public map. There's no website, no social media presence. If you're reading this, you either received a black-bordered envelope with a pressed gull feather inside… or you walked past a certain rain-streaked doorway on Wharf Street, smelled salt and turpentine, and turned the handle when you shouldn't have. welcome to port haven gallery
The last painting—canvas #7—is covered in a salt-stained velvet cloth. A note pinned to it reads: "Do not lift unless you are prepared to take the artist's place." Behind the gallery's single counter sits a woman
