The Memory Painter

He was sitting on his living room floor. Michael and Diana’s boxes littered the space. Earlier at the restaurant, after going through the wedding album, he had hurried home to open the rest of the boxes. He had found Michael’s journal almost immediately and had been reading for hours.

Bryan had remembered Lord Asano Naganori’s life ten years ago and had spent months afterward painting it—he had even attempted to paint Asano’s dream. He went to the storage closet and pulled out the life-size portrait of the Egyptian woman. Her face was uplifted to the sky, her feline eyes half open. She was shrouded in the mountain’s mist—Bryan had been unable to get her features right and had used the mist to his advantage. But she was still exquisite, and the portrait gave him goose bumps every time he saw it. No one had ever seen this painting.

He wondered if he should show it to Linz the next time he saw her, knowing he would see her soon, even though they hadn’t spoken since the night of the library. He had wanted to give her space to come to terms with all that she had discovered. And he was also hoping she would forgive him for his quick departure. At some point he would have to explain his problem. He could just imagine it: You see, I have this habit of reliving lifetimes when I’m with you. That conversation would be a winner. With a sigh, he put the Egyptian woman back in the closet. Maybe Linz shouldn’t see this yet.

*