She walked in, soaked, ignored, and judged, then pointed to a painting and said, “That’s mine.” I didn’t know it at the time, but uncovering the truth behind her words would turn my entire gallery upside down and bring someone unexpected to my doorstep.
My name’s Tyler. I’m 36, and I run a modest art gallery in downtown Seattle. It’s not one of those flashy places filled with critics and wine-soaked chatter on opening nights.
It’s quieter, more personal, and in many ways, it feels like an extension of who I am.
I inherited a love for art from my mom.
She was a ceramicist who never sold a single piece but filled our tiny apartment with color.
After losing her during my final year at art school, I dropped the brushes and picked up the business side instead.
Owning a gallery became my way of staying close to her without losing myself in grief. Most days, I’m here alone, curating local work, making conversation with regulars, and keeping things steady.
The space itself feels warm.
Soft jazz drifts from speakers tucked into the ceiling corners.
The polished oak floors creak just enough to ground the quiet of the gallery. Gold-framed pieces line the walls, catching the golden light at just the right angles.
It’s the kind of place where people speak in low voices and pretend they understand every brushstroke, which, honestly, I don’t mind.
That calm, composed air keeps the chaos of the outside world at bay.
But then came her.
It was a Thursday afternoon, wet and overcast like most days here.
I was adjusting a tilted print by the entrance when I noticed someone standing outside.
She was an older woman, probably in her late 60s, with the look of someone who had been forgotten by the world.
She stood beneath the awning, trying not to shiver.
Her coat looked like it belonged to another decade, thin and clinging to her like it had long since stopped knowing how to keep anyone warm.
Her gray hair was tangled and flattened by the rain.
She stood as if she were trying to disappear into the bricks behind her.
I paused, unsure of what to do.
Then the regulars arrived.
Right on cue, three of them swept in with the smell of expensive perfume and opinions. Older women, decked out in tailored coats and silk scarves, their heels clicking like punctuation marks.
The moment they saw her, the temperature in the room dropped.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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