For a moment, I thought it was a cruel joke. But the voice on the other end sounded too calm, too confident.
“What did he say?” I asked, my throat dry.
—Ethan Kapoor. He personally requested that you be present. He said there would be no exhibition without you.
I couldn’t answer. I just hung up, trembling.
I couldn’t sleep all night.
That name, that boy I’d kicked out of my house a decade ago, was returning to my life like a ghost, unsure whether to forgive me or destroy me.
On Saturday, the city seemed different.
Or maybe it was me who had changed.
The glass building of the new TEK Gallery gleamed in the sun like a monument to everything I hadn’t been: perseverance, talent, redemption.
The initials on the facade—TEK—sent a shiver down my spine. T. Ethan Kapoor.
I walked in with my heart pounding as if I were about to commit a crime.
The lobby was filled with journalists, artists, and patrons. The white walls were covered with portraits.
And in the center, a large painting: a male figure standing, his face blurred, while a small boy walked away, carrying a torn backpack.
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