The Strings of Love

A fresh, acrid smell of paint mixed with desperation hung heavy in the dim light of her tiny apartment as she sat hunched over her easel. The painting before her was a kaleidoscope of chaos: a stormy sea, dark waves crashing against jagged rocks, a solitary lighthouse standing tall but weathered. It was her favorite piece and her most personal.

And it had to sell.

The gentle hum of her mother's oxygen machine filtered through the cracked bedroom door. Every hiss, every click reminded her of piling bills in the hospital, those treatments that Lily could hardly pay for, and that fact which was a bit too grim to acknowledge for longer than a moment or two.

Her phone vibrated on the cluttered table and tugged her back. Caleb.

Caleb: Don't forget about tonight. The gallery's your chance to shine.

Lily stared at the message, biting her lip. Caleb was always so optimistic, so sure that this was the moment her luck would change. But she wasn't.

Lily: I'll be there.

She was concise, and she managed to convince herself that this was the case. The event tonight in the downtown gallery wasn't just another opportunity; it was her last. If she didn't sell her art, she didn't know how she'd pay for her mother's next round of medication.

Hours later, she stood in the corner of the gallery, the stormy seascape she painted finally facing the room from her place upon an easel. The low murmurs of conversations filled the room, spurts of laughter then talked over each other, filled with patrons-very rich, costly scents mingling together amid a faint hint of wine and hors d'oeuvres.

Lily smoothed the fabric of her dress, a secondhand find that didn't quite fit, and tried to steady her nerves. She'd poured her soul into this painting. Someone had to see its worth.

But as the night wore on, her hope began to wane. People glanced at her work, nodding politely before moving on to the more abstract, trendy pieces that lined the walls.

"You're the artist?"

The voice was low and smooth, velvet, and it startled her. Turning, she found a man standing there; his tailored suit fitted him like a second skin. Sharp featured, with slicked-back dark hair, he had eyes so piercing they made her heart stutter.

"Yes," she whispered.

His gaze flicked up to the painting, hung there a moment, then came back to her. "It's raw. Honest. I like that."

Relief washed over her, but before she could reply, he pulled out his phone and began to text.

"I'm so sorry, I have to take this," he said shortly, striding away without another word.

Lily blinked. And that was it? Was he interested or merely being polite?

The night ended in disappointment.

She packed up her painting in mechanical motions. Her chest was empty, and her legs weighed a ton as she trudged her way to her apartment.

The hall was dark as she arrived. The bulb above her door flickered ominously. Stepping inside, she opened the door. The scent of lavender and paint thinner wafted from inside.

"Mom?" she called softly, peering into the bedroom.

Her mother was sleeping, her fragile body curled under a worn quilt. It sent a pang of guilt through Lily's chest.

She quietly closed the door and leaned against the wall, clutching the painting to her chest. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Her phone buzzed again, and she pulled it out, expecting another pep talk from Caleb. Instead, it was an unknown number.

Unknown: Lily Carter, you have talent. But talent needs opportunity.

She frowned. Her heart raced. Before she could type out a response, another message came through.