sitting pretty ∞ h.s

chapter thirty two

thirty two

CHARLOTTE's POV

We were at the entrance of an art museum. We waited patiently for the couple before us to walk in. Soon we were inside the museum, there were beautiful mixtures of colors from every direction. Harry's hand was still intertwined with mine and he didn't seem to want to let it go.

We stood upon a large painting, Harry's eyes were wide with fascination. He seemed intrigued by the large canvas, colors splattered all over it. He ran his opposite hand through his hair and bit his lip. He turned to look at me, "It's a girl." He said, his eyes darting back to the painting quickly. He continued, "She's writing in a journal- a diary, perhaps. She's smiling because she's had a good day. She's writing of the simplest things, but they made her happy." He explained, pulled me closer and stared down at me again.

I was in awe, listening to the easy flow of Harry's words as he spoke of the painting as if it was a work of his own. He enjoyed art, he loved the entire concept of it being that he was an artist himself. A sculptor. It all came easy to him, he was able to interpret something that looked like a splash of colors to me into what it was suppose to be in the first place.

I looked at the painting again, realizing that he was correct. In the splash of colors a girl had appeared in the center, a journal in front of her. I didn't know what to say, I was stunned that he was so artistic. I rose my eyebrows and slightly smiled, "Tell me more." I said as he guided me over to a canvas that was a bit smaller than the first.

He squinted his eyes and examined the paint closely, "Do you see this?" He pointed at the bottom of the painting. I leaned closer to it, my eyes focusing on the name.

Before we could stare at it any longer, a security came up to us. "Please step away from the painting." He said, we stood about three feet away from the painting now. Harry had a frown on his face, he tapped the man's shoulder just before he began to walk away.

The security turned around, "Would you mind telling me who the artist of this painting is?" Harry asked kindly.

The security rolled his eyes, I assumed it wasn't his job to tell us informations about the paintings. He inhaled, "A man named Des Styles." He leaned closer to us as he shared the information.

"Are you sure?" Harry seemed concerned, but I couldn't tell.

I remembered my first days inside of Harry's house. His mother talked to me, she told me about how she struggled to live while she was pregnant with Harry. I didn't remember her telling me the name of Harry's father, but I suspected Des Styles was him.

"Yes, the museum received the painting about ten months to about a year ago. I do not have access to that type of information though. Why is this so important?" The security guard seemed curious, interested in the conversation.

Harry sighed, "Because my father may still be alive." He shook his head in disbelief. He suddenly seemed frantic, "Thank you." Harry said and lead us out of the museum. He breathed in the air, running his fingers through his hair. I frowned and waited for him to explain.

I bit my lip in impatience, "Did you know that it was possible?" I asked quietly.

"There's a death certificate. I attended his funeral." He said, sounding unsure.

FLASHBACK

He stood a few feet away from the casket, it was closed. It looked untouched, unopened. Harry didn't notice as he walked up to it, placed both of his hands flat on the casket and said his first and last 'I love you' to his father. He didn't stay for long, removing his hands from the surface of the casket. He walked over to his mother who hadn't shed one tear.