Ghosts in the Gallery

Barcelona – Six Weeks Later

The loft was filled with the scent of lavender and the soft, melodic hum of Clara's sleepy breath. Aria stood at the easel, baby monitor on the windowsill, a brush between her fingers.

It felt different now.

Her strokes were slower, more intentional—like every painting was not just hers, but her daughter's inheritance. Not just beauty, but legacy.

"You've become a different kind of artist," her mentor had said over the phone.

Aria had smiled. Maybe motherhood did that. Or maybe love did.

Ronan – In the Alley Beside the Gym

The boys from the youth rugby team were filing out after drills when Ronan heard someone call his name from the street.

He turned—and froze.

A man stepped out of a sleek black car. Worn leather jacket, greying stubble, sharp eyes.

"Coach Ronan," the man said with a smirk. "You've grown up."

Ronan didn't reply.

"Nothing for your uncle?"

His stomach twisted. "Didn't know you were out."

"Two years now. Kept my nose clean. Thought I'd drop by. See how my nephew's doing."

Ronan's fists clenched. "What do you want?"

His uncle's eyes roamed. "Just a chat. Old times. Family. Don't worry—I won't cause trouble. But it'd be a shame if your… domestic bliss got rattled because of secrets."

Ronan's jaw tightened. "That a threat?"

"A reminder. Blood doesn't stay buried forever."

Then he walked away, leaving the warning hanging in the air.

Later That Night – The Loft

Ronan didn't tell Aria. Not yet.

She was already nervous, pacing the living room in a sleek black dress, her art portfolio clutched in one hand and Clara's diaper bag in the other.

"Ronan, is this neckline okay? Or is it too—trying-too-hard?"

"You look incredible," he said.

"You're biased."

"I am. And right."

She sighed. "It's my first gallery appearance since Clara. I'm terrified I've lost the edge. The hunger."

He walked over, placing a kiss on her cheek. "You didn't lose it. You just learned how to use it."

The Gallery – Downtown Barcelona

The event buzzed with murmurs and clinking glasses.

Aria's collection, titled Stillness in Motion, was front and center. Stark charcoal outlines, blurred watercolors, and bold strokes told a quiet but powerful story of love, grief, growth, and motherhood.

The piece titled Cliff Revisited—a woman no longer at the edge, but walking forward—drew most of the crowd.

"She's a mother now," a reviewer whispered to another. "And you can see it in every brushstroke. It's like her heart cracked open and poured right onto the canvas."

Aria stood near Ronan, Clara asleep in a wrap against her chest.

"You okay?" he asked.

She smiled. "For the first time in a long time… yeah."

Then a sharp voice broke through the moment.

"Well, look at you. All grown up."

They both turned.

Ronan stiffened.

Aria's eyes narrowed.

"You're not welcome here," Ronan said.

His uncle smiled. "Didn't mean to interrupt the family portrait. Just admiring the art. Passionate. Messy. Real. Like your mother's, back in the day."

Aria's blood ran cold. "You knew his mother?"

His uncle shrugged. "Knew her better than most. Before she married into a bottle."

Ronan stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Say one more thing—"

"Relax, nephew. Just saying… if you ever want the truth, the real family story—you know where to find me."

Then he vanished into the crowd like a shadow.

Back at the Loft – Midnight

Clara was asleep. The city outside was quiet.

Ronan sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

"I should've told you," he said. "About my uncle. About everything."

Aria knelt beside him. "Then tell me now."

So he did.

The shady dealings. The lies. The way his uncle had nearly ruined his mother's art career. How his father had spiraled not just from grief, but from betrayal. How Ronan had sworn he'd bury that history for good.

But blood, it seemed, didn't stay buried.

"I don't want Clara to grow up with this darkness around her," he said quietly.

"She won't," Aria said firmly. "Because we're not them. And because you've already broken the cycle."

"But what if—?"

"No." She cupped his face. "You're not your father. Or your uncle. You're Ronan. My Ronan. Clara's father. That's who you are."

He let out a shaky breath.

She kissed him.

Then kissed him again.