Their meetings began to occur more often—without a fixed schedule, without the need to arrange them. Some afternoons Tiffany came by simply to sit for a while in the garden; some mornings she arrived while Harry was still rearranging his easel. The wooden back door gradually grew accustomed to opening without warning. No one commented on it. No one asked when it had turned into a habit.

That afternoon, the light passed through Harry's room at a very low angle. It did not flood the space, only slipped in through the window, stretching into a thin band across the wooden floor. The room carried the scent of paper, watercolor, old wood. Harry sat before the easel, his back slightly curved, a pencil in his hand, his head lowered.

Tiffany was not in the room.

She sat outside on the porch, leaning back in her chair, watching the garden. A light breeze moved through the newly planted rose bushes. Young leaves trembled, brushing against one another with soft, nearly inaudible sounds. She reached out and touched a bud that had not fully opened yet. Her fingers paused, then withdrew.

Inside, Harry looked up.

He did not look directly at Tiffany. His gaze rested on the empty space before him, where her shape took form on the paper. The outlines were still faint. No color had been placed yet. He mixed his paints slowly, adding water a little at a time, stirring gently, waiting for the tone to settle before lifting the brush.

The chair on the porch shifted softly.

Tiffany adjusted her position, drawing one leg up, resting her chin on her knee. She looked into the room, saw Harry's back, the slight lift of his shoulders each time he paused to think. She did not call out. She did not ask anything. She only watched.

After a while, she spoke.

"Do you usually paint in the afternoon?"

Harry did not turn around.

"Yeah," he said. "The light's easier to work with."

"Who are you painting?" she asked, her voice light.

Harry stopped. The brush hovered in the air for a beat, then lowered.

"The person sitting out there," he said.

Tiffany laughed softly, not loud.

"Then don't make me look bad," she said.

Harry did not reply. He bent down again and laid a pale wash onto the canvas.

The afternoon moved slowly. Tiffany stood and stepped into the room. She stopped behind Harry, not too close. The light from the window fell on them from different directions.

"Where will you hang the painting?" Tiffany asked.

"I don't know yet," Harry said. "Maybe... here."

She leaned in to look. The face was not yet clear—only familiar curves, a body turned slightly to the side, hair falling over one shoulder.

"It looks more like me than I expected," she said.

Harry set the brush down.

"It's not finished," he said.

"But I recognize her," Tiffany replied.

When the painting was finished, Harry hung it on the wall opposite his bed. He measured the distance carefully, adjusted the height several times, and only then drove the nail in. The painting sat straight—neither tilted nor drawing attention to itself.

Tiffany leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed.

"You didn't sign it," she said.

"No need," Harry replied.

In the days that followed, the roses began to grow noticeably taller. Their stems grew firmer, their leaves thicker. One afternoon, Tiffany came by wearing a light jacket. She stood in the garden, bending down to examine each plant.

"This one's budding," she said.

Harry stepped closer and looked.

"Yeah," he said. "A few more days."

Tiffany straightened, brushing her hands together.

"Let's go to work," she said. "We're late."

Harry nodded. He locked the door and followed her down the narrow path leading toward the street. They walked side by side, not touching, but close enough that their sleeves brushed whenever their steps fell out of sync.

"Did you bring a jacket?" Tiffany asked.

"No," Harry said.

She stopped, slipped hers off, and handed it to him.

"Take it," she said. "It gets cold at night."

Harry looked at her, hesitated for a moment, then took it.

"Thank you," he said.

At the bar, the yellow lights came on. Tiffany sat in her usual seat, but tonight she sat closer. Harry mixed the drink and set the glass down in front of her.

"The usual?" he asked.

"Yeah," Tiffany said. "But lighter."

Harry nodded.

They talked between the moments when Harry turned away to work. Short exchanges slipped between the clink of glasses and the background music.

"You hung the painting?" Tiffany asked.

"Yeah."

"Has anyone seen it yet?"

"No."

"Good," she said. "I like it there."

When they finished work, they walked home together. The distance was short. Streetlights stretched out ahead of them, their shadows lengthening across the pavement, sometimes overlapping.

"Are you going to paint tonight?" Tiffany asked.

"Maybe," Harry said.

"Then I'll watch," she said.

When they reached the house, the garden was darker than it had been during the day. The roses stood still in the night, their stems faint under the porch light. Harry opened the door. Tiffany stepped inside first.

She stopped in front of the painting and looked at it for a long time.

"You put me here," she said.

Harry stood behind her without speaking.

"It's okay," Tiffany added. "I like it."

She turned and passed by him, her hand brushing lightly against his as she went by. Harry did not move away.

The evening unfolded slowly. No one hurried. No one asked anything more.

Outside, the wind passed through the garden. The roses stirred gently.

Inside the small room, the painting rested quietly on the wall, the light touching only one corner of it. Harry stood beside the easel. Tiffany sat in the chair, watching him.

"Go on," she said. "Keep painting."

Harry lifted the brush.

And the afternoon, the evening, and the days that followed continued—one flowing into the next.

End Of Chapter 11