TWENTY DAYS, TWO A.M

TWENTY DAYS, TWO A.M.

It had been twenty days—twenty days during which the canvas and the old tin roof seemed to have become one.

No sound could be heard; or rather, the sounds came in broken fragments.

Rain tapped against the old tin roof. The sky was gray and heavy, the sky of an autumn day.

Twenty days had passed.

No one had come.

Usually, when the young girl visited him, the smell of fresh bread filled the house. She was the painter's granddaughter, and she often stopped by to check on him.

But today, there was no one.

No news.

Twenty days had passed.

The old painter moved his hands and rubbed his tired eyes. He had barely slept the night before. When he woke, he looked around the hall at the paintings that remained.

Drops of rain had leaked through the roof and fallen onto the canvases, causing the colors to bleed into one another.

He gave a faint smile.

Then he went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee.

It was ten in the morning.

He was hungry, but there was nothing left in the cupboard. No food. Not even a piece of bread.

He looked toward the window.

The sound of car brakes came from the street.

After all, he lived near an intersection.

For years, that intersection had been his source of inspiration.

Red.

Green.

Orange.

Black.

Black.

Black.

White.

Black.

White.

Black.

Stripes of color that were always moving before his eyes.

Then came a knock at the door.

“Is the master here?”

“Yes. Please, come in.”

A young woman entered.

“I’m a student, Master. Your granddaughter’s new student. She told me to come here as a model.”

The old man looked at her.

His eyesight had grown weak with age. He put on his glasses—dark-tinted glasses that made his old eyes look even more tired.

She was a young Turkish girl, energetic and confident in what she was doing.

She sat down on a chair beside the wall.

“Master, shall we begin? If that’s all right. I have class today.”

The old man smiled.

“Are you in such a hurry? Sit down. I’ll make you some coffee.”

“No, Master. Please start. Paint me. I really love your work. I’ve seen your paintings, and I even bought one of them.”

The old painter picked up his brushes.

He began painting the girl.

He never made preliminary sketches with a pencil. He put the paint directly onto the canvas and allowed the image to reveal itself.

He had never believed in carefully planning a painting.

Whatever came from his hands, he accepted.

He no longer looked at the clock.

The day passed.

At last, the girl left.

She did not return the next day.

The old painter waited for her.

But she never came.

It was two in the morning when someone knocked on the door.

The old man got up.

He usually painted at night, working beside the soft light of a candle.

When he opened the door, he saw the girl sitting on the doorstep.

“Master… may I come in?”

Rain was pouring down, and the girl was completely soaked.

“Come inside.”

The old man did not know what else to say.

The girl went into the small room beside his painting supplies and lay down in a corner.

The next morning, the old painter woke and walked into the room.

He stopped.

The unfinished painting was complete.

He stared at it in disbelief.

“I didn’t finish this painting…”

He looked around.

“Who did this?”

For a moment, he thought that perhaps the girl who had come the night before had been nothing more than an illusion.

Suddenly, a loud sound came from the kitchen.

A glass had fallen.

“Master! Where is the coffee?”

The old man froze.

The girl was real.

She had truly come to his house.

She had really spent the night there.

The painter sat beside the finished canvas.

“Did you finish this painting?”

“Yes, Master. I told you, I’m a painter too.”

The old man studied the canvas carefully.

“You painted something beautiful. But why is it only the face of a girl? And why is her face so colorful?”

The girl was silent for a moment, as if she herself were unsure of what she had painted.

“I’m not very good with color… I just put it on the canvas the way I felt it, without thinking and without fear.”

The old man slowly nodded, as if something inside him had suddenly become clear.

“No… it’s beautiful. Sometimes the truth reveals itself exactly like this—raw and without rules. I’ll keep it as a work of art.”

For the first time in a long while, something new had entered the old man’s faded life.

The girl’s presence had brought warmth back into his lonely world.

But a few days later, the girl disappeared again.

The old painter was alone.

No one came to visit him until one day his grandson entered the room.

They talked briefly about several paintings.

The young man took a few canvases with him to sell on the street.

Before leaving, he placed a little money in the old man’s hand.

“This is the payment for the paintings, Grandfather.”

As the young man gathered the canvases, the old painter suddenly asked:

“Did you send someone here to model for me?”

The young man looked at him in confusion.

“No, Grandfather. I didn’t send anyone.”

The old man said nothing more.

He simply said goodbye to his grandson.

Several weeks passed.

The painter had almost completely lost his strength to work.

He would sit on the floor and stare at the old tin ceiling.

He had painted that ceiling himself, too.

When he was young, he had painted buildings. He had worked for churches, painting their walls and ceilings.

But those days were gone.

His hands no longer had the strength they once possessed.

Until one night…

At exactly two in the morning, there was another knock at the door.

The old man gathered all the strength he had left and made his way to the door.

And there she was…

The same girl.

She was sitting on the doorstep again.

Her head was lowered, and she was staring at the ground.

For the first time, she spoke differently.

“Grandfather…”

The old painter stared at her.

“Grandfather, did you recognize me?”

“No…”

The old man answered in a weak voice.

“Let me come inside. I’ll explain everything to you.”

The old painter opened the door.

The girl stepped inside.

“I bought one of your paintings some time ago.”

The old man frowned.

“I have never sold a painting directly to anyone. You must have bought it from my grandson.”

“Yes,” the girl said quietly.

“I bought it from your grandson.”

She looked exhausted.

“I’ll tell you everything in the morning. I’m tired now. Let me sleep here on the bed. You sleep beside your painting supplies, as you always do.”

Morning came.

The old painter woke up.

His eyes widened in shock.

All his paintings were gone.

All his jars of paint.

All his brushes.

Everything was gone.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside.

Familiar footsteps.

“Grandfather!”

“Grandfather!”

His grandson was calling from outside.

The old man did not answer.

The young man entered the room.

But he stopped in his tracks.

The sight before him left him stunned.

His grandfather was lying on the floor, barely conscious.

In his hands was a single painting.

A portrait of a girl.

But the colors on the canvas had faded.

The young man stared at the painting.

He remembered it.

“I sold this painting months ago…”

he thought.

“How did it get back into Grandfather’s hands?”

“Where did he get it?”

“I sold this painting…”

“I sold it to an old woman.”

The young man took out his phone and called emergency services.

A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived at the old painter’s home.

But almost no strength remained in the old man’s body.

He took his grandson’s hand.

With trembling fingers, he pressed the painting against the young man’s chest.

Then, in a voice that was barely audible, he whispered:

“This girl…”

He took a breath.

“She used to visit me.”

His eyes slowly closed.

“She was the girl whose portrait I painted.”

And perhaps that was the truth: some faces do not remain only on canvas; they enter our lives.

Sometimes art is more than an image… it is a door to something we do not understand.

And if someone ever opens the door to their creativity without knowing why, they may see a world that others will never see.