graceland - carl grimes

V

v.

how great thou art?
"not for the creator nor the beholder,
but for the muse"

♱

him

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. "Before everything ended."

Lydia steps forward, her fingers tracing the edges of a bronze bust. "Incredible."

She's delicate in a way I'm not used to. Quiet. Intent. Every motion she makes feels like part of a ritual. Even the way she moves her hand is graceful, like the air itself yields for her. And maybe I've been too long among soldiers and blood to understand softness anymore, but I find myself following the curve of her wrist, the pale line of her throat.

She tilts her head, lips parting slightly in awe, and for one dizzy second, I wonder what she'd look like tilting her head like that beneath me, breathless for an entirely different reason.

I quickly tear my gaze from her. Trying very hard to not think of her in the way. Especially knowing such thoughts would never be returned.

"My mom was a professor at Tulane. She taught the history of art."

I glance back, glad to have a subject of literally anything else to speak on, 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. I can almost see the wistfulness in her eyes as she speaks.

It always interests me a little. Hearing how people lived before and then comparing it to how they live now.

"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 remind myself I am trying to get as much information from her as I possibly can. "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.