Epilogue

The gallery was quiet in the early morning light, the scent of fresh paint and varnished wood lingering in the air. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching dust motes in its golden embrace. The space was still, almost reverent, as if the walls themselves understood the significance of the art they held.

Amelia stood in the center of the room, her arms crossed lightly over her chest. The exhibit was finally complete, every frame carefully hung, every label in place. People would be arriving soon—critics, artists, strangers who had never known Celeste but would feel her in every brushstroke.

But for now, it was just Amelia.

And her.

Her gaze landed on the largest painting in the room, positioned in the heart of the exhibit. It was Celeste.

Not as a dream. Not as a fleeting, imagined figure.

But as she had been. As she was.

Her soft eyes, her half-smile, the glow of something almost otherworldly beneath her skin. Amelia had painted every detail with aching precision—the stray strands of hair that refused to stay tucked behind her ear, the way the light always seemed to cling to her, the warmth in her expression that had never faded, even when everything else had.

It had taken Amelia weeks to finish it.

Months to gather the courage to display it.

And now it hung in the center of the exhibit, a silent promise. A love letter in paint.

She took a step forward, hesitating only briefly before reaching out. Her fingertips barely ghosted over the frame, not quite touching, as if pressing against it too firmly would shatter the fragile moment.

"Do you see this?" she wanted to whisper. "Do you see how I kept my promise?"

She had painted Celeste into the world. Given her a place where time could not erase her.

And in doing so, she had ensured that Celeste would never be forgotten.

A soundless exhale left her lips.

People had told her to move on. That time would soften the ache, that loss would become easier to bear. But they didn't understand.

Celeste had not left.

Not really.

She was in the art that filled these walls, in the colors that had once stained Amelia's fingers, in the quiet moments when the world felt too big, and Amelia still caught herself waiting for the sound of her voice.

There.

That feeling again.

Like the whisper of a breath against her neck, the weight of an unseen presence at her side.

She closed her eyes.

For a long time, she had been afraid to believe.

Afraid that if she held onto hope, she would never be able to move forward.

But hope had never been her weakness. It had always been her strength.

And Celeste—

Celeste was still here.

Maybe not in a way that could be touched.

Maybe not in a way that could be seen.

But in the quiet moments, in the spaces between seconds, in every painting Amelia poured her soul into—

Celeste was here.

A soft knock sounded against the gallery's entrance.

The doors would be opening soon.

She turned, stealing one last glance at Celeste's portrait before stepping away.

She didn't need to look back.

Celeste would always be with her.

A whisper followed her as she walked toward the doors, so quiet she almost thought she had imagined it.

"I never left."

And maybe—just maybe—she never would.