The gallery was modern and crowded.
I walked in, feeling out of place.
The paintings were striking—oil on canvas, cold, distant, haunting.
I read the artist’s name: T.P.A.
Those initials struck me.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
A tall, thin young man, simply dressed, stood before me—with a deep, unreadable gaze.
I froze.
It was Arjun.
He was no longer the fragile child I had abandoned.
In front of me stood a composed, successful man. Familiar, and yet so distant.
“You…” I stammered. “How…?”
He interrupted me—his voice calm, sharp as glass.
“I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind.
And what you chose to abandon.”
He led me to a canvas covered with a red cloth.