“The day I signed the papers and chose the paintings.”

The Cross House expanded into three cities. Hundreds of artists passed through its programs — some became commercially successful, some never sold a single piece, and Evelyn treated both outcomes with equal seriousness.

Above the entrance to every building was a sentence she had written after speaking with Rosa: Being unseen is not the same as being unworthy.

On the tenth anniversary of the auction, Evelyn returned alone to the original attic. She was fifty-three now. Her hair had gone silver at the temples, and paint still collected beneath her fingernails no matter how carefully she washed them.

Outside, rain moved softly against the windows. Downstairs, the newest group of artists was celebrating its first exhibition, and laughter rose through the house.

Evelyn set a blank canvas on the easel. For several minutes, she simply stood before it. She thought about the woman she had been at twenty-six, certain that marriage meant waiting for her turn.

She thought about the woman she had been at forty-three, signing away a beautiful house in exchange for canvases someone else valued at one dollar. She thought about the woman she was now.

Then she lifted her brush. She painted a room without walls. At the center stood no lonely figure. There was only an open window, a wide sky, and morning light entering without permission.

THE END.