midnight in the garden of eden - carl grimes

V

-

v.

the captives
"the art is not for the creator nor the beholder,
but for the muse"

-

The gallery is quiet, lit by shafts of morning light spilling through tall windows, the warmth of the sun dappling the worn hardwood floors. Lydia's eyes widen as soon as we step inside, her breath catching as she takes in the paintings, the sculptures, the remnants of a world so different than ours. The walls are lined with history, pieces curated by hands long gone, a tribute to an age when art held more significance than mere survival.

"This place used to be a museum," I explain, my voice soft, careful not to break the spell. "Before everything ended."

Lydia steps forward, her fingers tracing the edges of a bronze bust. "Incredible." She moves from one piece to the next, and I watch as something in her softens. "My mom was a professor at John Hopkins. She taught the history of art."

I glance at her, intrigued, and wondering if she'll share more. "What was she like?"

Lydia's lips twitch into a small, reminiscent smile. "Cultured. Spiritual. Traveled. Our house was a gallery of its own." She tells me, almost distantly, like she's not really here with me in this moment but somewhere else, long ago. "Every corner had something special, something she'd found or traded for. The front door was salvaged from a Vanderbilt mansion. Roman vases she bartered for during a sabbatical in Greece. Tribal masks from her time in Africa. She had a story for everything—where it came from, who made it, what it meant."

I imagine it—this home, filled with echoes of distant places, the scent of books and ancient artifacts, the walls breathing with history. It feels worlds apart from the life Lydia has now, and I can almost see the wistfulness in her eyes as she speaks.

"My dad," She continues, a soft laugh escaping her. "He just accepted it. Every surface, every inch of the house, covered in her treasures. The one thing he contributed? A signed Mickey Mantle card. That was his pride and joy."

Her voice falters for a moment, the fondness fading, and I realize she's never spoken about her father before.

I hesitate, unsure if I should press further, but the question slips out before I can stop it. "What happened to him?"

Lydia stiffens, her expression closing off. The softness, the warmth from before, vanishes, replaced by something darker. "He died." She responds, tight, brittle. "At the very beginning. Only a couple weeks in, actually. It was bad."

I can see it in her face, the way her gaze drops to the floor, her body shrinking into itself. Whatever happened, it's a wound that still bleeds, even if she doesn't want to show it.

"I'm sorry." I say quietly.

She doesn't respond, just stares at the art on the walls as she peruses the gallery but then her footsteps slow as she approaches a particular painting, her gaze fixated on it with a kind of reverence. I know the one she's looking at before I even glance over. My stomach twists, a heaviness settling in my chest. It's a piece I've always tried to avoid when I come down here.

She tilts her head, almost in awe. "Captives by Arthur Trevethin Nowell." Her admiration is clear. "It was hanging in my house growing up."

I blink. "That was hanging in your house?"

She nods, her eyes never leaving the painting. There's a strange fondness in her expression, but I pointedly avoid looking at the painting, focusing down on my boots, crossing my arms. Lydia must sense my discomfort because she turns to me, her brows knitting together in concern. "It's just art." She says softly. "It won't hurt you to look at it... Or is it the nudity?"