People asked what it meant.
I told them it was about discovering that escape wasn’t the end of a story.
Sometimes it was the beginning.
On opening night, Jasmine stood beside me wearing a bright red dress.
Camille arrived with flowers.
Patricia brought several students from the arts center.
And Damien entered quietly, carrying no entourage, just a small bouquet of white lilies.
He stopped in front of The Choice.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he looked at me.
“Is that the hallway?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
His eyes moved toward the open door in the painting.
“You made it brighter.”
I smiled.
“That’s how I remember it now.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
I took his hand.
“Because it led somewhere I could finally choose for myself.”
His expression softened.
Later that evening, when the guests had begun leaving, he approached me near the gallery window.
“Hannah.”
