Chapter 1
“Honey?”
My husband’s voice slices through my thoughts like a blade.
“Yes?” I blink hard, turning to look at him.
He nods toward the stage. “The painting you wanted—it’s next.”
I shift in my seat, heart picking up speed.
The room dims just slightly as a man in a pitch-black suit steps onto the stage, cradling a rectangular frame hidden beneath a white cloth. His movements are slow, careful—almost reverent. Something about him feels… off. As if he’s not just handling a painting, but an altar.
When he pulls back the sheet, I forget to breathe.
The boy stares back at me.
He’s small, maybe five. Pale. Dressed in a soft blue shirt under a brown jumper. His light brown hair curls just slightly over his ears. His eyes—those enormous, glassy blue eyes—are filled with something ancient. Sadness. Grief. Knowledge. They bore into mine as if they know me. Two thick tears slip down his round, flushed cheeks.
He doesn’t look painted.
He looks… alive.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my throat closing up. My eyes sting. “He’s beautiful.”
The kind of beauty that haunts you. That clings to you. I feel his pain in my bones. I can almost hear it echoing in my skull like distant sobs in a dark hallway.
The auctioneer’s voice feels miles away, but I catch it in pieces.
“May I present the next piece… The Crying Boy. Giovanni Bragolin original oil painting. Vintage. Singular. There is only one like it in the world.”
I grab Rene’s hand tightly. “That’s the one,” I murmur, never looking away from the boy.
The auctioneer continues, “Legend says this piece—and others like it—were commissioned by an orphanage. The artist, whose real name was never revealed, painted portraits of orphans… to encourage adoption. But there’s more to it. It’s said he used the orphans’ blood to mix his paints. Especially the reds. That very night, the orphanage burned to the ground.”
The room seems to shift. I feel colder.
“But the painting survived. Untouched. Perfectly preserved in the ashes.”
“Oh, my poor sweet boy,” I whisper.
Rene squeezes my hand, unnerved. “Yeah… those poor kids.”
“Let’s begin the bidding at one thousand dollars.”
“Fifty thousand!” I shout, rising from my chair.
Silence. All heads turn.
The auctioneer blinks. “Fifty thousand to the lady in blue. Going once… going twice… Sold!”
A bang of the gavel. The crowd buzzes.
I can barely breathe.
I feel electric.
In the back room, we meet the auctioneer. Rene writes a check like it’s a chore.
“Thank you, sir, for your generosity,” the auctioneer says, shaking Rene’s hand.
“Thank my wife. She’s the one who saw the value. Bid fifty grand without blinking.” He glances at me with those wide, judgmental eyes. You’d think I was bankrupting him. The man who earns that in a morning meeting.
The auctioneer hands me the painting, his voice quieter now. “This piece… it’s had many owners. But it always comes back. It’s never found a home.”
I meet the boy’s eyes again.
He doesn’t feel like a painting. He feels like a soul.
“He has one now,” I say softly. “With me.”
The auctioneer holds my hand between both of his, warm and trembling. “Then take good care of him.”
“I will,” I whisper.
We reach the car.
I open the door, slide into the passenger seat, and exhale. Relief washes over me—until I glance at the mirror.
My blood runs cold.
Rene is walking toward the trunk. With the boy.
I bolt from the car.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, hurrying to him.
He looks startled. “Putting the painting in the trunk?”
“He doesn’t belong there!” I snatch it from his hands, cradling it to my chest. I carry it to the back seat and lay him down gently, like a child.
Rene slams the trunk. “It.”
“What?” I spin on him.
“It’s a painting, Kathleen.”
“I know that, Rene!” I snap. I slide into my seat again, my pulse pounding.
“Then why do you keep calling it him?”
I look at the boy’s eyes in the mirror. They almost seem grateful.
“I don’t know,” I lie. “It just slips out.”
He doesn’t answer. Just starts the car, jaw clenched.
He’ll never understand.
Not about the boy.
Not about our boy.
Six months ago, I lost our baby. Three months away from holding him in my arms. Naming him. Loving him. Watching him grow.
But instead, I held pain. Empty arms. A hollow womb. And silence.
No one talks about how grief can rot inside you. How it eats. How it whispers.
But this painting…
Today, for the first time in half a year, I feel something warm flickering in my chest. Something like joy. Something like purpose.
The boy gave that to me.
I reach out, take Rene’s hand, and stare out the window.
And I swear…
From the back seat, I feel someone watching me.
