The gallery became unaccustomedly quiet. The usual sounds-the rustling of papers, cautious footsteps on the parquet, the distant voices of the tour guides-suddenly gave way to a deafening hum of anticipation. Emily sat at her desk, bent over the catalog of the new exhibition, but since that morning her thoughts had been far beyond the halls. They had returned again and again to their last conversation, hers and Mr. Knight's.

Sebastian, to be exact. He had insisted that she address him by his first name, though there was still something distant, almost untouchable about him. As if he himself were one of those marble sculptures you wanted to touch-but couldn't.

They met again a week after their first encounter. He'd come in late in the evening - the gallery was closing, the staff was going home. Emily was still there, tidying up the Impressionist room.

- You stayed late," he said, appearing almost silently behind her. - Is that a sign of devotion... or loneliness?

She turned around slowly, not knowing how to respond to such ambiguity.

- More of a habit,' she replied calmly. - When the day ends, art begins to sound different. No voices, no noise... It almost whispers.

He looked at her carefully. Then - not immediately - he smiled.

- I'd like to hear what it whispers to you.

Something had changed since that evening. Sebastian began to appear at the gallery more often, sometimes alone, sometimes with potential buyers or art critics. But even in these formal meetings, Emily could feel his attention torn between the paintings and her voice as she talked about the next exhibit.

On one such morning - when the sun was still slipping between the glass facades of Manhattan - he lingered in his office, gazing at the sketches and drawings of the future exhibit. Emily stood nearby, pointing out the mounting points for the backlighting. But soon the conversation turned to something else.

- You don't just run the gallery, do you? - she asked cautiously. - You really... live it. Why?

He was silent, his gaze sliding toward the window, where the rooftops were silvery in the morning light.

- Because art is the only thing that gives me a chance to make things right," he said at last. - I grew up in a family where everything was measured in numbers. Profits. Stocks. I was sixteen the first time I saw a painting that made me...stop. It was the first time someone put their hand on my chest and said: "You're alive." I've been searching for that feeling ever since - over and over again.

Emily listened, unable to utter a word. There was something painfully familiar in that confession. She knew what it was like to look for a foothold in beauty when everything in reality was crumbling. She remembered the fire that had consumed their home...and her father. Only paint, only canvas had saved her then.

- Sometimes," she whispered, "it seems like art is the only place to hide from the past.

They looked at each other. For the first time, for real. Without the usual defenses, without roles. It was as if in that look they both saw something they'd been searching for a long time.

After that morning, every day began to sound new. There was a sense of foreboding in his movements. There was uncertainty in their words. Emily could feel Sebastian searching in her for answers. And every day, more and more, she found them in herself.

But along with attraction came doubt.

He was older, richer, more powerful. His name was known. His past - kept its shadows.

And yet, the next time he held her gaze a little longer than he should have, Emily didn't avert her eyes for the first time.