Orphanage

I have been staring at the painting since morning. The light from the window hits the canvas just right, casting long, warm shadows across its surface. The open hand, with the soft petals blooming out of torn flesh, is almost finished—almost. But not quite. I can't bring myself to make the final strokes. It's not because I'm unsure of the technique, or even the composition. It's something deeper. Like if I finish this painting, I'll seal something inside it that I'm not ready to let go of.

It aches.

There's a pull in my chest, low and tight and invisible, like a thread that refuses to snap. I've gone over the details countless times—the shading between each knuckle, the delicate linework of the veins curling around the stem of the daisy. But I can't close the image. Can't sign it. Not yet.