The building in front of her had once been white, but now graffiti graced the two first meters from the ground up, and above that, countless cracks were embedded deep into the façade. There were no windows on the first floor, only a garage door and an old wooden door with rusty hinges.
She looked down at the crumpled note in her hand, and then up at the address scribbled on the building. They were identical.
For a moment, she stood still, the only sound reaching her ears the sound of the still spinning wheels on her bike. It lay on the ground, having been slung there in her rush to find the right place. And now she had.
She took in a shaky breath and knocked on the door, the sound of her fist against the wood ringing out in the silent street. She scratched her knee in anticipation, but as the wounds were healed, no blood pooled under her nails, and she found herself scratching at old scars.
She knocked again, swallowing the lump in her throat. For a while, no one came, but just as she was about to knock a third time, the door was thrown open, the rusty hinges screaming with the effort, as if they hadn't been opened for years. There he was. Standing 6 feet tall, in a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans. His hair was messy, and his shirt was splattered in paint, but a smile shone upon his face and his eyes gleamed like the stars.
"Fancy meeting you here," He said and leaned against the doorframe.
"Yeah, it's almost like someone left me a mysterious note telling me to come here," Adelaide said and laughed.
"I wonder where they got the inspiration to do that from," he raised his eyebrows and smiled at her. And suddenly he couldn't keep himself away from her any more, so he wrapped his arms around her in a hug so tight it took her breath away. "I'm so glad you came."
"You know me, I cant resist an adventure," She whispered in his ear, and hugged him back.
"So, where are we?" She asked when he let go of her.
"Come in and see for yourself," he said and stepped aside, inviting her in.
The building was but one room, the walls stretching four stories tall without being interrupted by a roof. The only source of light was a cluster of light bulbs, hanging on wires from the roof beams twelve meters above them, and the sun that flowed through the windows, bathing the room in a soft, yellow light. Shelves lined the northern wall, and a wooden table was placed in the middle of the room, there was even a bed with white messy sheets slung upon it. But as her eyes swept across the room, it was not the architecture that caught her eyes, nor was it the interior; It was the paint.
Huge canvases covered in the most beautiful colours and motifs she had ever seen, lined the walls, while others rested on the floor. Easels were scattered around, every single one of them covered in old paint, as if thousands of paintings had been painted upon them. The wooden table was the home of hundreds of brushes and palettes, coal and pencils, while stacks of paper lined the shelves.
"Welcome," Harry said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "To my art studio."
"I haven't been here much lately, but I used to spend hours in here, sometimes even staying the night because I felt like if I left, the images in my mind would disappear." His voice shook as he spoke, because in his lifetime, he had but invited two people into this room: Adelaide, and Him.
Adelaide's lips were slightly parted in surprise, and her starry eyes gleamed in the soft light of the room. "Do you mind if I?" The words were too heavy for her lips to wrap around, and they fell trembling to the ground before she could speak them.
"Not at all," Harry said and squeezed her hand lightly.
At first, her steps were small, as if she was unsure as to where she should put her feet, but then, as she gained some confidence, they got more certain. She felt as though she was walking in a museum, his museum, where paintings from lost times were displayed for her to see.
Her eyes swept over the artworks. Some of them were landscapes; sunsets and sunrises painted to delicately she felt the need to cover her eyes from their beauty. Others were of people, men, women and children, all of them with their heads slightly turned, so that their eyes never met hers. Not all of them were done, but every single one of them shone with a beauty that took her breath away.
She felt like she was walking for hours, the sounds of the world drowning as her eyes swam in the dried paint.
Eventually, she came to a stop, as if she had found what she had been looking for. Her back was turned to him, and though he could not see the painting in front of her, he knew the exact colours her eyes were resting on.
In front of her, there were not one, but three works of art: A painting, a drawing, and a watercolour sketch. She brushed her fingers over the dried paint upon the canvas, half expecting to feel the soft surface of water beneath them, because as the colours danced together, they formed the image of a boy in a lake. The water tickled is collarbones, and though he had tried to push his wet hair out of his face, a couple of loose strands still clung to his forehead. The smile on his face was so big his eyes squinted to the point where she could barely make out their colour, but they were blue. The boy had his hand raised, as if he was in the act of splashing someone, and water flew into the air, so exquisitely painted she was surprised she couldn't feel it hit her face.
The drawing was a portrait, the same boy looking down, his long eyelashes resting upon his high cheekbones. At first, it didn't seem as though he was smiling, but as she leaned in closer, she could see a small smile playing upon his lips. His hair hung over his forehead, so long it tickled his eyes. Adelaide had never seen him before, but she knew who he was.
Lastly, her eyes fell upon the watercolour sketch. Her breath got caught in her throat, and she felt a raindrop land in her heart, because the drawing was a self-portrait. He had painted his hair black, and in his eyes there raged a grey storm, dark waves crashing into the rocks of his irises. From his eyes, bouquets of blue flowers fell, running down his cheeks like tears.
"Forget me not's," she whispered, and another raindrop landed in her heart. There was nothing beautiful about the picture. The lines were drawn too harshly, and the colours were too melancholy, for anything but pain to shoot through her heart as she looked at it. But it was not the black lines or the blue colours that made the clouds in her heart let go of all their water, in fact, it was not what was in the painting that broke her heart. It was what was not in the picture that tore her apart; the drawing had no mouth.
"I didn't speak for thirteen months after he died." Harry said, his voice shaking as he answered the question she hadn't asked. "I-I always wanted my last words to be spoken to him, and after the accident, I figured that if I didn't speak for the rest of my life, I would get what I wanted."
She turned away from the painting and looked at him. Water lingered in his eyes, but it didn't spill down his cheeks. "What made you change your mind?" She breathed, the words so weak they barely reached his ears.
"I found this," He picked up a folder from the table, and she walked over to him. It was a deep maroon colour, the edges tattered and the back broken, but it was not the outside that mattered. Harry opened it for her, the contents finally being graced by eyes other than his. It was filled with photographs, the colours drained so that only black, white and grey remained. Most of them were of Harry, looking a lot younger and with an endless smile painted upon his face. Some showed him painting or cooking, others laughing or reading.
"They're beautiful," Adelaide said as she looked though them. And they were, every single photo shining with a beauty of it's own. "Did he take them?"
"Yeah, I always told him he could make a living out of his photographs. That he was so talented it would be a shame not to show people the world from his point of view. But he didn't want that. He told me he only did it for himself, and that if he started doing it for someone else, there would be no point in it." He smiled as he looked at the old photos, and Adelaide could see the ghost of his younger self play in his features.
"This," he said, and pointed at the last photo, "Is what I found."
The photograph showed Harry, his head resting upon a pillow, and a sheet draped over half his body. His eyelashes hung on his cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted as he drew in sleepy breaths. Adelaide didn't get much time to admire the photo, because Harry turned it around, showing her the backside. It was covered in handwriting so messy she could barely read the words, but this is what it said:
"Dear Harry,As I am writing this, you are sleeping, just like you did when I snapped this photo. I can hear you snoring, and while I may complain about tomorrow, right now, there is no sound I'd rather hear. Because the sound bears witness to your beating heart and your breathing lungs, because right now, through the darkness of this room, I can hear your life, just like I can see it every day. I see it on your face. I see it in your dimples and in your smile. I see it in your eyes and I it in your body. I can feel it in your hands and in your chest. I can feel it in your lips and in your heart. And I can't help but wonder: "How did I get so lucky? How did I get so lucky as to get to love you?" I don't know, but I love you, I love you, I love you. And I always will. I love you"
"When I read this, I realised that now it was me asking the question: "How did I get to be so lucky as to get to love Him?" I never found the answer, and I guess I never had to. I just needed to find the question to know that it had been the biggest adventure of my life, and that not telling people about it would be the biggest mistake I could ever make." As he spoke, Harry felt the ocean in his eyes, but not a single drop escaped from it. Talking about Him felt good. The blue eyed boy with messy hair and high cheekbones was a part of him, and no matter how much time passed, that part would never go away. Nevertheless, he waited for Adelaide to ask the only thing she did not know. But the question never grew wings strong enough to be carried from her lips to his ears, and as he watched her read the note, he realised why she didn't have to.
The blue eyed boy was his past, while Adelaide was his present, and maybe, just maybe, his future.