What We Leave Behind
The morning light spilled through the tall windows of the suburban kitchen like liquid gold, touching everything with a warmth that felt foreign now. Rose sat at the oak table—the one they’d refinished together five years ago, Ade’s careful hands sanding away imperfections while she painted the legs a soft cream—her own hands clasped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
Her reflection in the window looked ghostlike. A woman both familiar and strange.
It had been three weeks since Ade left, and Rose was still trying to recognize herself in mirrors.
My name is Rose Adeyemi, I’m forty-one years old, and this is the story of what happens when betrayal becomes art, when grief transforms into something darker, and when the line between justice and revenge blurs into shades of gray that no one can quite name.
Before the Leaving
To understand the leaving, you need to understand what came before. You need to know about the eighteen years Rose and Ade built together—the architecture of a marriage constructed from shared dreams and quiet compromises.
They met at university in Lagos, both art students with more passion than discipline. Ade was the dreamer—all wild ideas and unfinished sketches, brilliant in bursts but never quite landing. Rose was the one who finished things, who turned rough concepts into realized pieces, who made beauty from chaos.
They complemented each other. That’s what everyone said. Ade would start projects Rose would complete. He’d dream up installations she’d engineer. Their first exhibition together—”Two Voices, One Vision”—sold out. Critics called them the future of contemporary Nigerian art.
They married the next year in a small ceremony in Ibadan, surrounded by artist friends who gave them paintings instead of kitchen appliances. Rose wore a dress she’d sewn herself, cream silk with hand-embroidered patterns. Ade read poetry he’d written about how she made him see colors he didn’t know existed.
For a while, maybe seven or eight years, it worked. They moved to a suburb of Lagos, bought a house with a garden and tall windows. Ade built Rose a studio in the converted garage—northern light, proper ventilation, room for all her supplies. “My muse needs a temple,” he’d said, painting the walls white while she laughed and told him he was being dramatic.
But somewhere around year ten, something shifted. Subtle at first, like paint fading so gradually you don’t notice until you compare it to how it used to be.
Ade’s art career stalled. The galleries that had once courted him stopped returning calls. His installations were “interesting” but “not quite right for the current market.” His painting style was “derivative” of his earlier, more innovative work. The criticism wore him down like water on stone.
Meanwhile, Rose’s work flourished. Not spectacularly—she’d never been one for the spotlight—but steadily. She taught part-time at a community arts center, sold paintings at local exhibitions, took commissions for portraits and murals. Steady income. Quiet success. The kind that pays bills without making headlines.
Ade said he was proud. Said it often, actually. But Rose noticed the way his jaw tightened when she talked about a new commission. Noticed the way he’d change the subject when someone asked about his work. Noticed the way he’d stopped painting altogether, spending his days “researching” or “networking” or simply not being home.
The silences grew louder. The conversations shorter. They still said “I love you” before bed, but it sounded like reciting multiplication tables—memorized rather than felt.
Rose told herself it was a phase. All marriages had them. You just had to weather it, the way you weathered Lagos traffic or rainy season. You endured and eventually got through to the other side.
She was wrong.
The Leaving
It happened on a Tuesday. Rose remembered because Tuesdays were her early days at the arts center—she’d been home by three, surprising herself with how light she felt, planning to make Ade’s favorite jollof rice, maybe suggest they take a walk before sunset.
Instead, she came home to find him standing in the kitchen, suitcase by the door, face composed in the way people look when they’ve been practicing difficult words.
“Rose, we need to talk.”
Those four words. The universal preface to endings.
She set down her bag slowly, already feeling the ground shifting beneath her. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was quiet. Rehearsed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Can’t do what?” But she knew. Of course she knew. Had known in that wordless way we know truths we’re not ready to face.
“This.” He gestured vaguely at the kitchen, the house, perhaps at her. “Us. I need… something different. I need to find myself again.”
Find himself. As if he were lost keys rather than a forty-three-year-old man in a marriage.
“Is there someone else?” Rose asked, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.
Ade looked away. “It’s not about that.”
Which meant yes. The non-answer that answered everything.
“Who is she?”
“Rose, that’s not—”
“Who. Is. She.”
He sighed, running his hand over his face in that gesture she’d seen a thousand times—the one that meant he was tired of being pushed, tired of questions, tired of her. “Her name is Yemi. Mrs. Adeleke. She’s a lecturer at the university. We’ve been… talking. About art. About life. She understands what I’m going through.”
The implication hung there like smoke: You don’t understand me anymore. Maybe you never did.
“How long?” Rose asked.
“Does it matter?”
“How. Long.”
“Six months.” He had the decency to look ashamed. “I never meant for it to happen. It just… did.”
Six months. Half a year of lies. Of “networking events” and “research meetings” and “staying late at the studio” that she’d believed because disbelieving would mean acknowledging what she didn’t want to know.
“I’ll come back for the rest of my things next week,” Ade said, picking up his suitcase. “I’ve transferred this month’s contribution to the account. I’ll make sure—”
“Get out.”
He stopped, looking at her like she’d slapped him. “Rose—”
“Get. Out.” Her voice was still quiet. Still controlled. But something in her face made him move.
At the door, he paused. “I really am sorry. You deserve better than this.”
After he left, Rose stood in the kitchen for a long time, staring at the oak table they’d refinished together, the walls they’d painted, the life they’d built from shared dreams and quiet compromises.
Then she went to the bathroom and threw up.
The Discovery
Rose tried to carry on. Went to work. Taught her classes. Smiled when people asked how she was. “Fine,” she’d say. “Everything’s fine.” The lie tasted like metal on her tongue.
She didn’t tell anyone about the separation. Not yet. Saying it out loud would make it real, and she wasn’t ready for real. She was still living in the space between the life she’d had and the life she was going to have, suspended like paint mid-drip.
Then came the text from her friend Bola.
Saw Ade at La Mer yesterday. With a woman. Looked cozy. Should I be worried or are you two doing some kind of open thing now?
Attached was a photo taken from across the restaurant. Ade and a woman Rose didn’t recognize—elegant, polished, mid-thirties, the kind of beautiful that looked effortless but probably took an hour to achieve. They were leaning close over wine glasses, his hand covering hers on the table.
Rose stared at the photo for what felt like hours but was probably minutes. This was Yemi. Mrs. Adeleke. The woman who understood what Ade was going through.
She looked exactly like the kind of woman Rose used to be before marriage and mortgages and the slow erosion of certainty—confident, ambitious, unweighted by compromise.
Rose called Bola back. Explained. Listened to her friend’s fury on her behalf, the offers to slash tires or key cars or at minimum spread unflattering rumors. “Just say the word,” Bola said. “I know people.”
“I don’t want revenge,” Rose said, and meant it. At the time.
But late that night, alone in a bed that suddenly felt cavernous, Rose lay awake staring at the ceiling and feeling something shift inside her. Not anger exactly. Something colder. More calculating. Anger burns hot and fast. This was ice forming slowly, deliberately, building layer by layer until it was strong enough to stand on.
She thought about the studio Ade had built for her. Hadn’t been there in months—too busy with teaching, with maintaining the house, with the thousand small tasks that keep a life running. Had let it gather dust while she told herself she’d get back to painting “when things settled down.”
Things would never settle down. That’s what she was starting to understand. You had to make your own stillness.
At three AM, Rose got up, got dressed, and walked out to the studio.
The Studio
The studio smelled like turpentine and time. Dust motes swirled in the dim light from the single bulb. Rose’s easels stood like sentinels, canvases in various states of completion—half-finished portraits, abandoned landscapes, sketches that had never evolved into anything more.
In the corner, she found it. The painting they’d started together five years ago, back when “together” still meant something.
A woman standing in the rain, reaching toward a blurred figure walking away.
Rose remembered the day they’d conceived it. They’d been fighting about something stupid—whose turn it was to buy groceries, maybe, or whether they could afford a weekend in Calabar. The fight had ended the way their fights always ended: with apologies and promises to do better, with the understanding that love meant forgiving small grievances.
“We should paint this,” Ade had said afterward. “The moment of reaching. Before you know if they’ll turn around.”
They’d started the canvas together, Rose sketching the composition while Ade mixed colors. But then something had pulled him away—a commission, a meeting, one of the many things that pulled him away—and the painting had stayed unfinished.
Rose pulled it onto the easel and really looked at it for the first time in years.
The woman in the rain—she had Rose’s build, Rose’s posture. The figure walking away had Ade’s stride, Ade’s coat. They’d been painting their own story without realizing it. Or maybe they had realized it and that’s why they’d stopped.
Rose picked up a brush.
The first stroke was uncertain. Her hand remembered the motion but not the confidence. Second stroke, more sure. Third, fourth, the muscle memory returning like a language she’d stopped speaking but never quite forgotten.
She painted through dawn. Through morning. Through afternoon. Forgot to eat, forgot to check her phone, forgot everything except the canvas and the colors and the story taking shape beneath her hands.
But it wasn’t the same painting anymore.
The woman in the rain stayed, but Rose painted her differently now—not reaching but standing still, face turned away from the departing figure. Changed the posture from longing to letting go.
And the figure walking away? Rose painted it more clearly now. Ade’s face, unmistakable. But beside him, she added another figure—elegant, polished, the woman from Bola’s photo. Mrs. Adeleke.
But here was the interesting part, the part that came to Rose like inspiration or maybe compulsion: behind the couple, reflected in a shop window, she painted them differently. In the reflection, Mrs. Adeleke held a knife, her expression calculating. And Ade—in the reflection, his eyes were hollow, empty, the eyes of a man already dead.
Rose stepped back from the canvas at sunset, her hands cramping, her back aching, her chest lighter than it had been in weeks.
She looked at what she’d created and felt something close to satisfaction.
Meanwhile
While Rose painted her truth, Ade was discovering his new life wasn’t quite the liberation he’d imagined.
The affair with Yemi Adeleke had started innocently enough—or that’s what Ade told himself. She’d attended one of his talks at the university, approached him afterward with intelligent questions about technique and theory. They’d gone for coffee. Then drinks. Then more drinks.
She was brilliant. That’s what drew him first. The way she talked about art like it mattered, like it was worth dedicating your life to. She knew every artist, every movement, could reference obscure theorists and connect disparate ideas with elegant precision.
She made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t felt in years. With Rose, he’d become “Rose’s husband,” the supporting character in her steadier, more successful story. With Yemi, he was interesting again. Relevant.
The affair had been intoxicating at first—stolen hours, secret messages, the thrill of transgression mixed with genuine connection. Yemi looked at him like he was still the promising artist from twenty years ago rather than the struggling has-been he’d become.
But now, living in his small apartment near the university, seeing Yemi properly as a girlfriend rather than a mistress, the fantasy was colliding with reality.
Yemi was demanding. Not in a cruel way, but in the way of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and expected others to keep up. She wanted him at gallery openings, networking events, dinners with important people. Wanted him to dress better, talk smarter, be more ambitious.
“You have so much potential,” she’d say, and he’d hear the unspoken addition: if only you’d try harder.
She wanted him to match her drive, her sophistication, her carefully curated image. And Ade, who had once been the dreamer, now felt like he was constantly performing, constantly falling short.
He missed Rose’s quiet acceptance. The way she’d made dinner without commentary when his day had been difficult. The way she’d believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. The way she’d looked at him like he was enough, exactly as he was.
But pride kept him from calling. Pride and the knowledge that leaving had been his choice, his words, his suitcase by the door.
You don’t get to unmake those choices just because they’re harder than you thought.
The Invitation
Three months after Ade left, Rose’s phone buzzed with a message that made her pause mid-brushstroke.
I’ve finished the painting we started. Would you like to see it?
She’d sent it before she could second-guess herself. Sent it because the painting felt complete and because completion demanded witnessing. Sent it because some part of her—the part that was ice rather than fire—wanted him to see what his leaving had created.
The reply came quickly. Yes. I’d like that.
They arranged to meet on Sunday at the studio. Rose spent Saturday cleaning the space, though not too thoroughly. Let some of the dust remain, some of the disorder. This wasn’t about impressing him. This was about showing him the truth.
Sunday arrived bright and clear. Rose wore jeans and an old shirt, clothes for working not impressing. She’d learned something in the past three months: she didn’t need to impress anyone anymore. The only person whose opinion mattered was her own.
Ade arrived at three, looking thinner than she remembered, circles under his eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. He’d dressed carefully—button-down shirt, good jeans, the leather jacket she’d bought him three birthdays ago.
“Rose.” He smiled uncertainly. “You look well.”
“Do I?” She hadn’t checked a mirror in days. “Come in.”
The studio smelled like fresh paint and linseed oil. The painting stood on the easel, covered with a white sheet—Rose’s small dramatic flourish, her nod to unveiling ceremonies.
They stood there in awkward silence for a moment. All the history between them, all the shared years, compressed into this strange formal distance.
“How have you been?” Ade asked.
“Busy. Teaching. Painting. Living.” Each word carefully chosen, carefully neutral. “You?”
“Good. Different. Adjusting.” He glanced around the studio. “I forgot how much I loved this space.”
“You built it,” Rose said. “For me. Remember?”
Something flickered across his face. “I remember.”
More silence. Then Rose gestured to the covered painting. “Do you want to see it?”
“Yes.”
She pulled away the sheet.
Ade went very still.
The painting was beautiful in the way disturbing things can be beautiful—technically brilliant, emotionally devastating. The rain-soaked woman was clearly Rose now, face turned away from the departing figures with an expression of quiet dignity. The couple walking away was unmistakably Ade and Yemi, captured in that moment from the restaurant photo.
But it was the reflection that made Ade’s breath catch. In the shop window behind them, their mirror images told a different story: Yemi clutching a knife, her elegant facade dropped to reveal something calculating and cold. And Ade—hollow-eyed, already dead, a man who’d traded one life for another without realizing the cost.
“What is this?” Ade’s voice cracked.
Rose’s smile was faint, almost tender. “It’s what I see now. Truth. Illusion. Consequence.”
“This is—” He turned to her, face pale. “This is cruel.”
“Is it?” Rose tilted her head. “I think it’s honest. You wanted to find yourself, remember? I’m just showing you what I see when I look at where you’ve gone.”
“You’re saying I’m dead.”
“I’m saying you traded one life for another without understanding what you were giving up. I’m saying that woman—” she gestured to Yemi’s reflected image, “—doesn’t love you. She loves what you represent. An artist she can shape, mold, display. You’re her project, Ade. Her creation. Not her partner.”
“You don’t know her—”
“Don’t I?” Rose’s voice was still quiet, still controlled, but now there was steel underneath. “You told me she understands you. That she sees you. But does she? Or does she see the version of you she wants to create?”
Ade stared at the painting, and Rose saw the moment her words landed. Saw recognition flicker across his face before pride shut it down.
“You don’t get to judge my choices,” he said.
“I’m not judging. I’m observing. I’m painting what I see.” She stepped closer to the canvas. “You once told me I made you feel alive. Remember? When we were students, when we’d paint all night and talk about changing the world through art. You said I made you see colors you didn’t know existed.”
“I remember.”
“Look at yourself now.” Rose gestured to the reflection. “Do you see any colors? Because all I see is gray.”
They stood there, the painting between them like a third presence. Outside, children played in the street, their laughter distant and foreign.
Finally, Ade spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “I made a mistake.”
“Yes,” Rose agreed. “You did.”
“Can we—is there any way to—”
“No.” The word was gentle but absolute. “You can’t unmake this choice, Ade. You can only live with it.”
She walked past him toward the door, paused with her hand on the frame. “You should go. The painting is finished now. There’s nothing left to say.”
“Rose—”
“Goodbye, Ade.”
She left him there, standing in the studio he’d built for her, staring at a painting that held more truth than he was ready to face.
The Aftermath
Rose submitted the painting to a local exhibition almost on impulse, entering it under the title “What We Leave Behind.” She didn’t expect much—local exhibitions were crowded with amateur work, rarely drew serious critical attention.
She was wrong.
The painting created a sensation. Critics called it “haunting,” “raw,” “brutally honest.” They wrote essays about its exploration of betrayal, its layered symbolism, its unflinching examination of how love decays before it dies.
People whispered about the artist’s story. Rose never confirmed the rumors, but she didn’t deny them either. Let people wonder. Let them project their own betrayals onto her canvas. Art was meant to reflect its viewers as much as its creator.
The painting sold for more than Rose had earned in the past three years combined. Gallery owners called with exhibition offers. Art magazines requested interviews. Suddenly, quietly, Rose’s career was taking flight in a way it never had before.
Meanwhile, Ade’s relationship with Yemi Adeleke crumbled with surprising speed. The painting had gone viral online, shared and reshared until it became impossible to ignore. Yemi saw it, recognized herself in the reflection, and was furious.
“This is defamation,” she’d raged. “Your ex-wife painted me as a murderer!”
“It’s art,” Ade had said weakly. “It’s symbolic.”
“It’s personal,” Yemi snapped. “Everyone knows it’s us. Everyone’s talking about it. This is humiliating.”
The relationship couldn’t survive the exposure. Yemi ended it two months after the painting’s debut, moving on to another man—wealthier, more promising, less complicated by ex-wives and viral art.
Ade drifted after that. Job to job, city to city, a man trying to outrun his own reflection. He’d see the painting featured in art blogs, shared on social media, discussed in university seminars. His hollow-eyed reflection followed him like a ghost he couldn’t shake.
Ten Years Later
The gallery opening was on a warm spring evening, the city alive with music and the particular energy that comes when art and commerce briefly pretend to be friends.
Rose Adeyemi’s retrospective—”Transformations: A Decade of Vision”—filled three rooms of the prestigious Àkọ́kọ́ Gallery in Lagos. Her work had evolved over the years, moving from the raw emotion of those early post-separation paintings into something more refined, more technically sophisticated, but never losing that core of brutal honesty that had made “What We Leave Behind” so powerful.
She was forty-nine now, her hair showing the first threads of silver she didn’t bother to dye. Success had brought neither softness nor hardness—just clarity. She knew exactly who she was and wasn’t interested in being anyone else.
A young reporter approached as Rose stood near the entrance, watching guests filter in. “Mrs. Rose Adeyemi?”
“Just Rose, please.”
“Your retrospective is stunning. I read that ‘What We Leave Behind’ was your first major work. What inspired it?”
Rose paused, gaze drifting toward the painting now hanging in the center of the main room. It had appreciated substantially in value over the decade, been loaned to museums, featured in textbooks. Its power hadn’t diminished.
“Loss,” she said simply. “And rebirth.”
“Some say it’s autobiographical.”
Rose smiled, the expression reaching her eyes but revealing nothing. “Aren’t all our truths, in some way, self-portraits?”
The reporter scribbled notes. “There’s been speculation about the woman in the reflection—Mrs. Adeleke. Some say she disappeared years ago. No one’s seen her since around the time this painting was first exhibited. Do you know anything about that?”
Rose’s expression didn’t change. “I paint what I see. What happens after isn’t within my control.”
Later, as the gallery began to empty, Rose found herself alone with the painting. Her reflection shimmered faintly against the glass frame, superimposed over the rain-soaked woman she’d painted a decade ago.
“I didn’t think you’d actually make it this far.”
Rose turned slowly. She’d known he’d come. Had felt his presence the moment he entered the gallery, the way you feel pressure changes before a storm.
Ade stood a few feet away, older, thinner, eyes sunken but still recognizable. Time had softened his arrogance, carved away his certainty, left him looking more like a ghost of the man she’d married than the man himself.
“Hello, Ade.”
“I saw the feature in the papers,” he said. “Your retrospective. Ten years of success. I wanted to see it in person.”
Rose studied him with the detached interest an artist might show an old sketch. “You look well enough.”
It wasn’t true, but kindness was free.
“I’m surviving.” He exhaled slowly. “You really did it, Rose. Turned all that pain into something beautiful.”
“Pain demands to be transformed,” she said quietly. “Otherwise it just sits inside you, slowly poisoning everything.”
He nodded, moving closer to the painting. “I’ve seen this reproduced a thousand times. Online, in magazines, in textbooks. But seeing it in person…” He trailed off.
“What?”
“It’s different up close. There’s something in the layering I never noticed before.”
Rose said nothing.
“Do you ever think about us?” Ade asked. “About what we were?”
“Sometimes,” Rose admitted. “When I paint. But not with regret. You can’t make art from regret. Only from truth.”
He nodded again, eyes glistening. “I wish I could undo it all. The leaving. The betrayal. Everything.”
“You can’t,” Rose said, voice neither cruel nor kind. Just factual. “But you can learn from it. That’s all any of us can do.”
She started to walk away, but his voice stopped her.
“Rose?”
She turned.
“I heard something.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “About Yemi. Mrs. Adeleke. They say she disappeared about eight years ago. Just… vanished. No one ever found her. The police investigated but there were no leads, no evidence of foul play. Like she just ceased to exist.”
Rose’s expression remained perfectly calm. “That’s unfortunate.”
He studied her face, searching for something—guilt, satisfaction, fear, anything. “Rose,” he whispered, “you didn’t—”
She smiled faintly, tilting her head. “Didn’t what, Ade?”
“The painting. The knife in her hand. The way you painted her. The timing…”
“Art isn’t confession,” Rose said quietly. “Sometimes we paint our fears. Sometimes our fantasies. Sometimes just what we see. The interpretation is up to the viewer.”
“But—”
“Goodnight, Ade.”
She walked away, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor, each step measured and final. She didn’t look back.
Behind her, Ade stood alone in front of the painting, staring at his hollow-eyed reflection from a decade ago, wondering what was truth and what was art and whether there was any difference.
The Painting’s Secret
After the gallery closed, after the lights dimmed and the security guard made his final rounds, “What We Leave Behind” hung in the darkness, illuminated only by the soft emergency lighting.
Up close—closer than viewers were typically allowed—there was something about the painting that cameras never quite captured. A depth to the layers, a complexity to the brushstrokes.
In the reflection within the shop window, beneath the image of Yemi Adeleke with her knife and Ade with his hollow eyes, there was something else. Something Rose had painted in the final sessions, in the deep quiet of early morning when artistic vision and exhausted delirium sometimes blur together.
A face.
Faint, ghostlike, half-buried beneath layers of paint and glaze. Visible only at certain angles, in certain lights, when you knew to look for it.
A woman’s face. Eyes wide. Mouth parted—as if mid-scream or mid-breath or mid-sentence no one would ever hear completed.
Rose had painted it during one of those long midnight sessions, working in a state that felt like channeling something beyond conscious choice. She remembered mixing the colors, remembered the brush moving across canvas, but the memory had the quality of a dream—vivid but uncertain.
When she’d stepped back at dawn and really looked at what she’d created, she’d seen the hidden face and smiled. Art was truth, yes. But art was also mystery. And the best mysteries were the ones that could never be fully solved.
Did she paint a premonition? A fantasy? A confession?
Or did she simply paint what she saw when she looked at betrayal closely enough—the ghost of what might have been, or what should have been, or what perhaps actually was?
Rose never told anyone about the hidden face. Never pointed it out during interviews or tours. Let it remain there, buried in plain sight, visible only to those who looked deeply enough, who questioned carefully enough, who understood that art always contains more than its surface reveals.
Years later, an art restorer working to preserve the painting for a museum would discover the hidden face during routine analysis. The discovery would spark renewed interest, new theories, fresh speculation. The painting’s value would triple. Rose’s legend would grow.
By then, Rose would be fifty-seven, still painting, still transforming pain into beauty, still keeping her secrets the way artists do—hiding them where anyone can find them if they only know to look.
And Mrs. Yemi Adeleke would still be missing, her disappearance still unsolved, her case file still open but growing colder with each passing year.
Some mysteries are meant to be solved.
Others are meant to be painted.
Epilogue
On a quiet Tuesday evening fifteen years after Ade first left, Rose sat in her studio—a proper one now, not a converted garage but a light-filled space in a building full of artists—working on a new piece.
The subject was a woman standing in a garden, surrounded by roses. The woman’s face was turned toward the sun, eyes closed, expression peaceful. No rain. No departing figures. No reflections holding secrets.
Just a woman and light and the flowers she’d grown herself from patient cultivation.
Rose worked in comfortable silence, interrupted only by the occasional passing car, the distant laughter of children, the sound of her own breathing. The painting was for herself, not for galleries or critics or collectors. A private meditation on arriving somewhere she’d stopped trying to reach.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her gallery manager about an upcoming show in London. Rose responded with dates, logistics, the practical details of a successful artistic career.
Another message. From Ade. She’d stopped blocking his number years ago—petty grudges required more energy than they were worth.
I saw your new work featured online. The woman in the garden. It’s peaceful. You seem happy.
Rose considered the message. Considered all the years between then and now, all the choices and consequences and transformations. Considered what she owed him, which was nothing, and what she owed herself, which was truth.
She typed a response: I am happy. I hope you are too.
It was true enough. She was happy. The kind of happiness that comes from knowing yourself clearly, living by your own standards, making art that matters to you regardless of who sees it.
Whether Ade was happy was his own problem. She’d stopped carrying his emotions for him the day he walked out with his suitcase.
Rose set down her phone and returned to her painting, adding shadows to the roses, depth to the light, truth to every brushstroke.
Outside, the city moved through its rhythms. People fell in love and out of love, betrayed and were betrayed, hurt and healed and sometimes did both simultaneously. Life continued its messy, beautiful, terrible momentum.
And in a cold case file at a police station across town, the unsolved disappearance of Yemi Adeleke remained unsolved, a mystery no one had managed to crack despite years of investigation.
Some questions have no answers.
Some paintings hold secrets that can’t be spoken, only shown.
And some women learn to transform pain into something powerful enough to sustain them—whether that power is art, or justice, or something darker that blurs the line between the two.
Rose added one final stroke to her painting—a shadow in the corner that might have been a figure or might have been just darkness gathering where light ended. The ambiguity pleased her.
She stepped back, smiled at her work, and felt the satisfaction of knowing exactly who she was and what she was capable of.
The sun set through her studio windows, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow, light and darkness existing together the way they always do.
The way they always will.
THE END
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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