The name—Adrian—echoed inside my head like a sound traveling through years of memory.
For a second, I thought it had to be some kind of cruel prank. But the voice on the line sounded calm, professional, completely certain.
“What did you say?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.
“Adrian Cole. He personally asked that you attend. He said the exhibition won’t open without you.”
I couldn’t respond. My fingers trembled as I ended the call.
That night I didn’t sleep.
The name haunted me.
The boy I had forced out of my home ten years ago was suddenly back in my life, like a ghost I had tried to forget. I didn’t know if he had returned to forgive me… or to confront me.
When Saturday arrived, the city looked unfamiliar.
Maybe the streets hadn’t changed. Maybe it was just me.
The large glass building of the Riverside Art Center shone brightly in the sunlight, towering like a monument to things I had never managed to be—determination, talent, redemption.
The initials on the entrance made my chest tighten.
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