Her early work was full of warm color. Burnt-orange kitchens. Red coats on train platforms. Yellow curtains lifting in summer wind. As Daniel’s career expanded, the colors changed.

The figures grew smaller. The rooms grew larger. Doors appeared without handles.

Daniel did not notice. He rarely climbed the attic stairs, and when he did it was usually to ask her to lower the music or clear space for holiday decorations.

“You’re still doing these?” he asked one evening, examining a half-finished canvas.

Evelyn looked up from her stool. “I paint every day.”

“I know. I just thought eventually you’d want something more concrete.”