Chapter 2 The Traveler

He went straight to his private gallery. The gallery was silent. The painting stared at him with those same piercing green eyes. He trembled slightly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time in years, Damon felt an unfamiliar helplessness, a yearning he could not name, tethered to a woman he had never met outside of canvas and dream.

Morning light filtered in somewhere behind him, but he hadn't turned to look. He hadn't moved at all, actually. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the massive portrait hanging across from him as if he were waiting for it to speak first.

"Well?" he said quietly.

The woman in the painting did not answer. Damon took a closer look. Tracing the brush strokes. Her red hair caught the light in a way that made it look almost bright and fiery like a wild fire. It was alive. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles that looked perfectly scattered in place.

Whoever painted her must have loved her deeply to be able to capture such details flawlessly.

Her green eyes-God-those eyes didn't stare blankly the way painted eyes were supposed to. They looked right through him.

Damon swallowed.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "You're a fucking painting. Oil and canvas. You didn't call me anything."

Silence pressed back at him.

In his dream, she had stood in a garden bursting with colorful flowers stretching endlessly behind her. He could still smell it when he closed his eyes. The sweet smell, so soft and familiar in a way that made no sense.

Jeffrey.

The name landed in his chest like a misplaced memory. He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand down his face.

"I don't even know anyone named Jeffrey," he said to the empty room. "So if this is some elaborate psychological break, I'd really like it to be less creative."

The painting did not blink or breathe. It didn't even tilt its head the way it had in his dream when she smiled and said, My love.

He stared harder, as if intensity alone could force an explanation out of her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Nothing.

"Why did I dream about you?"

Still nothing.

A ridiculous thought crept in uninvited.

What if it's cursed?

Damon scoffed out loud at that. "Oh, come on."

He didn't believe in curses. Didn't believe in superstition. Didn't believe in haunted objects or past lives or spirits lingering in oil paint. He believed in provenance, market value, and the psychology of obsession. That was it.

And yet.

The dream had felt too real and not fragmented the way dreams usually were. He'd felt grass beneath his fingers and the sun on his face. He'd felt like he was home.

The gallery door opened behind him.

Victor stopped short the moment he saw Damon standing there.

"You're going to burn a hole through it if you keep staring like that," Victor said lightly. "And considering what you paid, I'd prefer we keep it intact."

Damon didn't turn.

Victor frowned. "Okay. That's new."

Damon finally spoke. "Do you ever look at something and feel like it's looking back?"

Victor blinked. "Good morning to you too sir."

Damon glanced over his shoulder. "I'm serious."

Victor stepped into the room, his usual easy posture sharpening with attention. "You didn't sleep."

"That obvious?" Damon asked.

"You look like you spent the night arguing with a ghost." Victor replied.

Damon huffed a short laugh that held no humor. "That's not funny."

Victor studied him for a moment, then followed his gaze to the painting. "Is this about her?" "She has a name," Damon said without thinking.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You know that how?"

Damon hesitated.

This was the moment where he either laughed it off or told the truth. The truth sounded insane even in his head but he chose the truth.

"I dreamt about her," he said.

Victor waited.

"I wasn't... watching her," Damon continued slowly. "I was there. With her. She spoke to me."

Victor's expression changed in curiosity. "What did she say?"

Damon swallowed. "She called me Jeffrey."

Silence stretched between them.

"And?" Victor prompted.

"And she acted like she knew me," Damon said. "Like I was supposed to remember her."

Victor folded his arms. "You know dreams borrow faces all the time. Especially after intense experiences."

"That's the thing," Damon snapped, then softened his tone. "It didn't feel borrowed. It felt remembered."

Victor studied the painting again, more carefully this time. "Did you know her name before the dream?"

"No."

"And now you do."

"Yes."

Victor exhaled slowly. "Okay. That's interesting."

Damon shot him a look. "You're not even going to pretend that's normal?"

"Oh, it's not," Victor said. "But it's also not unheard of. Art can trigger subconscious associations. Especially if-"

"She said her name was Maeve," Damon interrupted.

Victor stopped mid-sentence. "You're joking."

"I wish I were."

Victor stared at the painting for a long moment.

"Does the catalog list a subject name?"

"No. Just 'Unknown Woman.'"

Victor nodded once. "Then we find out."

Damon frowned. "Find out what?"

"Who painted her. Who owned her. Where she's been." Victor met his eyes. "Paintings don't appear out of nowhere, Mr Hale. Someone put her into the world."

Hope flickered before Damon could stop it.

"Let's start now," Damon said.

They did.

By noon, Damon had spoken to three galleries, two private collectors, and an archivist who owed Victor a favor. By midafternoon, they'd chased down every lead tied to the auction house. The answers were always the same.

No records. No ownership trail. No listed artist.

"That's impossible," Damon muttered, hanging up another call.

Victor rubbed his temples. "It's not impossible. It's intentional."

"Intentional how?"

"Someone erased her," Victor said. "Or hid her very well."

Damon leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. The dream replayed again. The way she'd looked at him like he was something precious.

Don't you remember me?

His phone buzzed. Unknown number.

He hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"

There was a pause. Then a voice.

"You've been asking questions about the painting."

Damon's spine went rigid. "Who is this?"

Victor straightened.

The voice continued. "If you want answers, you'll need to come in person."

"Where?"

"I'll text you the address."

The line went dead.

Victor stared at him. "What was that?"

Damon looked at his phone as the address came through. "Someone who knows."

They left that evening.

The streets seemed narrower as they turned onto the side avenue. Rain slicked the asphalt with reflections of neon signs dancing in puddles. Damon barely noticed, lost in thought about the painting and the strange dreams it had inspired.

Suddenly.

The tyres screeched. A horn blared.

The driver swerved sharply to avoid a truck, but it was too late. Then-

A loud crash.

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