Mother Paris

Richardson watched Elena from the open door of her bedroom. Sun streaks from the tall glass windows cast a glow on her complexion. Her long raven-black hair was tied up in a messy bun, her blue eyes deep in concentration, her brows knit in worry as she stared at the canvas before her. He couldn’t see what she was painting from where he stood, but he was certain it was beautiful. She dipped her brush into a paint palette in her hand and delicately stroked the brush against the canvas.

She reminded him so much of Paris, his late wife. It was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it made her seem so much alive, like she was never dead. He liked to keep it that way; on the other hand, it was haunting, seeing her every day, the awful reminder of the fact that she was dead and how she died. It gnawed at his insides. Paris was an artist, and Elena had gotten the gift from her.

They had met one beautiful night in the City of love. He had been there on an important trip. A quick detour he t