Finn leaned forward, hands interlaced. He tilted his head to study the painting in front of him. It was competently done, no, expertly done. It featured two figures on a hazy bridge, the lighting done in the silver light of the moon. The bridge over the river was the only solid looking object, everything else hazy as though it was wrapped in a funeral shroud of the thinnest cloth. The men were out of focus, the metaphorical lens of the viewing camera was smeared in petroleum oil. They were pressed close and while Finn couldn’t make out the details, he knew one of them must have been Eleonore’s lost love. She stood beside the painting, one hand clasped over the other.
“Well?” She prompted him after a bit.
Finn looked up at her. “And this is the start, isn’t it?”
Stories, both long and short. 