HE

Los Angeles mornings have one thing I like: the city hasn't started acting like itself yet.

Seven o'clock.

The honking hasn't started, the cafés are only just opening their doors, and the familiar rush hasn't settled onto people's faces yet.

I sat by the window, a cup of coffee in my hand, watching the building across from mine.

The old man who lived on the third floor hadn't opened his curtains again.

He hadn't done it for three days.

Normally, he opened them at ten past seven every morning.

Noticing people's little habits was part of my job.

When you're a painter, everyone tells you that you need to look at people's faces.

The truth is, you rely on your memory more than your eyes.

When you're painting a portrait, remembering exactly how crooked someone's nose is matters less than remembering what changes in their face when they look at you.

I painted people.

Portraits.

Sometimes for money.

Sometimes simply because I found someone interesting.

There were more than twenty paintings on the walls of my studio. Most were portraits waiting to be sold. Some had been commissioned. Others I'd never shown to anyone.

Those were my favorites.

Because when I painted them, I didn't have to prove anything to anyone.

I left my coffee on the table and walked into the studio.

Light from the window fell across the canvas.

I stood in front of the unfinished painting.

A woman.

Her face wasn't finished.

I'd only painted part of her hair and the small mole on her neck.

My phone rang.

Mom.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.

“Good morning.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

I lied.

My mother laughed.

“I can tell by your voice.”

“What do you want?”

“What does a mother want when she calls her son?”

“You called me.”

“Don't get caught up in the details.”

I smiled.

It was strange knowing she couldn't see it.

“Are you coming Sunday?”

I was quiet for a moment.

“I don't know.”

“Adrian.”

My mother saying my name like that always reminded me of my childhood.

She wasn't angry.

She had never been the kind of woman who yelled when she was angry.

She just said my name.

And I knew what I'd done wrong.

“I'll come,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Good. Your father will be home too.”

This time, I was the one who went quiet.

My mother noticed.

“Adrian?”

“I'm here.”

“There's nothing wrong, is there?”

“No.”

I lied again.

“Okay. We'll talk tonight.”

The call ended.

For a few seconds, the studio was silent.

Then I turned back to the painting.

I looked at the woman's face.

I picked up my brush.

My phone vibrated again.

This time, it was my friend Noah.

N: You coming to the exhibition tonight?

Me: What exhibition?

The three dots appeared.

N: Seriously? I talked about it for two hours yesterday.

Me: I wasn't listening.

N: I noticed.

I laughed.

Noah was one of the few people in my life who thought he really knew me.

Maybe he did.

“Are you coming tonight?” he texted.

Me: I'll be there.

N: Great. I'm going to introduce you to someone too.

I stared at the message.

Me: Who?

The reply didn't come immediately.

I picked up the phone again.

N: Surprise.

I locked the phone.

A few hours later, the city was awake.

So was I.

I left the studio and walked toward Venice.

One of the best things about Los Angeles is that people don't know each other.

Nobody cares who you are.

It gives people freedom.

It also gives them the chance to become whoever they want to be.

For me, there was another advantage.

People were easy to watch.

I sat at a café.

At the table beside me, a man was showing his girlfriend something on his phone. She was laughing, but her eyes weren't on the screen.

The waiter brought my order.

“The usual?”

“Yes.”

He knew me.

I didn't know him.

That's how it often works in this city.

Someone knows your habits.

You don't even know their name.

When I returned to the studio that afternoon, there was an envelope in my mailbox.

My name was written across it.

ADRIAN COLE

There was no return address.

I opened it.

Inside was a single photograph.

An old photograph.

I was in it.

Ten years old.

My mother beside me.

And my father.

I stared at the photograph for a long time.

I remembered where it had been taken immediately.

Santa Monica.

It had been raining that day.

My father was smiling in the photograph.

But his smile wasn't the first thing I noticed.

It was the woman behind him.

Standing at the far right of the photograph, blurred.

I couldn't make out her face.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a single sentence written on the back.

“Do you still remember this?”

I stood there without moving.

Then I left the photograph on the table and opened a drawer I hadn't touched in years.

Inside were my old notebooks.

Things I'd kept from childhood.

My first drawings.

My first sketches.

And a small note I'd written when I was eleven.

I still recognized the handwriting.

Because some things don't change.

They only grow.

The note said:

“If I do what Dad says, Mom won't cry anymore.”

My phone rang.

Noah.

I didn't answer.

A minute later, a message came through.

N: You're definitely coming tonight, right?

I looked at the photograph again.

This time, I stared at the woman's face for longer.

I couldn't remember her.

But it was obvious that someone wanted me to.

And for the first time in years, someone had opened the door to my past without my permission.