The Brush of Time

The woman stood in front of the painting, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the brushstrokes, the light and shadow, the way the blue of the sky bled seamlessly into the sea. It was a small gallery on Rue des Beaux-Arts, tucked between a perfumery and a bookstore, a place she had wandered into by chance. And yet, standing here now, she felt as though she had been pulled in by some unseen force, as if fate had been waiting for her to turn this corner. She stared for a long time. Looking at the painting felt like being transformed, hurdled through time and space, creating a warm fuzzy feeling deep in her chest. It felt like she was looking into the past.

The artist's name was scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner. Julian Carter. She stared at the signature for a long time, her mind working to accept what her heart had already understood.

Julian.

It had been twenty years since she had last seen him, but even now, with the passage of time settling into the creases of her hands and the lines around her eyes, she recognized his touch on the canvas. The way he layered colors like memories, the way he captured the softness of the world without losing its depth. She reached out, almost touching the frame, as the past unfurled before her.

They had met in a city far from here, in a summer that felt golden and endless. She had been young, reckless in the way that only someone who had never had her heart broken could be. He had been a painter, all wild hair and restless hands, always with a smudge of color on his wrist or a streak of charcoal on his cheek. They spent afternoons on his balcony, drinking cheap wine and watching the sky change color, his easel always nearby, as if inspiration could strike at any moment.

"Close your eyes," he had said to her once, the warm breeze carrying the scent of jasmine from the garden below. "I want to paint you exactly as you are in this moment."

She had laughed but obeyed, tilting her face toward the sun. She had felt the scrape of bristles against canvas, heard the quiet murmur of his concentration, and when she opened her eyes again, he had been staring at her, the brush frozen in his hand.

"You look like you belong to the light," he had murmured. "I want to keep you like this forever."

But forever had been a fragile thing.

Time had moved them apart, slowly at first, then all at once. She had dreams of her own, ambitions that took her elsewhere. He had stayed behind, choosing colors over certainty, the unpredictable life of an artist over the steady rhythm of the world. They had written letters for a while, long, sprawling confessions of love and longing, but distance had a way of silencing even the loudest hearts. One day, the letters simply stopped coming.

And now, two decades later, here she was, staring at his work in a quiet Parisian gallery, her pulse hammering with something too big to name.

She read the plaque beside the painting. There was an event tomorrow night, an exhibition featuring the artists who were still alive to tell their stories. Her breath caught again. He would be there.

The next day passed in a blur of nerves and anticipation. She wandered the streets of Paris, visiting old landmarks, searching for something familiar. The Seine rippled beneath the bridges as couples strolled hand in hand. She stopped at a café and ordered a coffee, the scent of roasted beans reminding her of the mornings they had spent in his tiny apartment, the walls lined with unfinished canvases. She remembered waking up to find him already painting, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers smudged with blue and ochre. He had always said mornings were for dreaming, for letting the world emerge in color before the day imposed its structure.

She found herself walking to Montmartre, climbing the winding streets where artists still set up their easels, selling quick portraits to tourists. Once, he had taken her here, pointing out the old haunts of the great painters he admired. "This city never forgets its artists," he had said. "Even long after they’re gone."

She had laughed, teasing him about how he spoke like an old poet, but there had been a truth in his words she had not understood then. Now, standing among the bustling crowd, she saw his world through different eyes. This was where he had belonged. The years of anger and disappointment of being forgotten for a city faded away as she walked the streets. The city had a pulse and it was what he needed. It was who he was. They were exactly where they were supposed to be all these years.

When the evening finally arrived, she stepped into the event space, the soft hum of conversation surrounding her like a tide. The gallery was larger than she expected, filled with people moving from painting to painting, champagne glasses in hand. Her pulse quickened. She scanned the room, her heart a steady drum against her ribs.

And then, she saw him.

He stood near a table of wine glasses, his hair streaked with gray but his posture unchanged, still carrying that quiet intensity that had drawn her in all those years ago. His eyes swept across the crowd, moving past her, then stopping.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The years between them were vast, a bridge of time and lost words, but as she took a step forward, she felt the past collapse like a wave returning to shore.

His lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, after all these years, he finally spoke.

"Hello, Claire."

She swallowed, her throat tight. "Julian."

A slow smile spread across his face, hesitant but familiar. "I never thought I’d see you here."

"Neither did I," she admitted. "I didn’t even know you were—"

"Still painting?" he finished for her. "Always. Some things don’t change."

She glanced at the painting that had drawn her here, her heart swelling. "No, they don’t."

And as they stood there, lost in the echoes of the past, she wondered if, perhaps, some stories weren’t finished yet. Perhaps, after all these years, their colors had simply been waiting for the right moment to blend once more.