Chapter 9: The Pull Toward the Unknown
I stepped out of the room with Adrian still behind me. My pulse was loud in my ears, louder than my own footsteps.
The hallway looked the same as before, but something in me felt different. Like the air had thickened. Like I had walked through a doorway I didn't see.
The woman from earlier waited for me.
"Miss Sinclair, this way," she said.
I followed her, but my mind stayed in that room with Adrian. His stare. The strange recognition in his eyes. The way he said he had seen my work like it carried more meaning than he spoke aloud.
I shook it off and tried to focus.
We entered a bright studio office used for briefings on the same floor. A long table sat in the center. Sketches, palettes, color samples. Three members of the creative team sat there.
They introduced themselves. Smiling, Professional, and kind.
They talked about the commission. The theme. The expected timeline. The confidentiality agreement. I nodded, asked questions when needed, took notes. My hands steadied the longer I spoke. Talking about art always grounded me.
One of the team members slid a folder toward me.
"In here are the guidelines," he said. "You'll review them before you start the concept draft."
I nodded and thanked him.
When the meeting ended,they handed me a temporary pass and thanked me again.
Before you leave," one of the team members said, "we usually give new artists a short orientation. You'll need to see the archive room. It's where we store reference pieces and older works."
Archive room.
The word alone made my chest tighten, though I couldn't explain why.
I followed him down a quiet hallway. The lights were warm. The air smelled faintly of varnish and cool storage. A security panel blinked beside a heavy door. He tapped a code and the door unlocked with a soft click.
"Don't touch anything," he said with a small smile. "Some of these pieces are older than the building itself."
"I won't, I promised."
He stepped inside first, turning on the lights. They brightened slowly, revealing shelves, racks, and large rolling panels covered in neatly labeled canvases.
It was beautiful in a quiet, sacred way.
He received a call just then, one he seemed pressured to answer.
"I'll be right back," he said. "Please wait here."
He slipped out before I could respond, leaving the door half-closed.
I stayed still at first. Hands folded. Breathing steady.
My eyes drifted across the rows of stored artwork. Most of them were draped with protective fabric. Some were sealed in frames. Others leaned against the far wall like sleeping giants.
A tall, covered canvas stood at the back. A little taller than rest, wider too. The cloth over it looked older, thicker, like it had been protecting the painting for a long time. Longer than the others.
I didn't know why, but the moment I saw it, something moved in me.
A small pull,
Quiet but firm,
Like a thin thread wrapped around my ribs.
I walked toward it before I even realized I was moving.
Up close, the air around it felt different.
Warm, and familiar.
Why familiar?
I reached out. My fingers hovered inches above the cloth, just an inch more and I'd feel the texture, the weight.
I paused for awhile,What was I doing?
This wasn't mine, neither was it part of my briefing.
This is a private archive, not a gallery.
I lowered my hand and took a slow step back, and I wanted to come closer again but I forced myself to turn away to leave,I heard footsteps.
A calm, steady rhythm,
Not rushed,
Not surprised.
I turned,
Adrian Wynford stood in the doorway.
His voice reached me, calm but edged with something unreadable.
"I see it caught your attention."
I turned to face him, Adrian stood there, hands in his pocket, and his gaze wasn't on me.
It was on the covered canvas.
I replied by saying"I… I didn't touch it."
"I know," he said.
His tone shifted, softer, and deeper.
He finally looked at me.
"What is it?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he stepped closer to the canvas and rested his hand lightly on the cloth, the same way I almost did.
His eyes stayed on me.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, "there are things in this building that are not part of your commission yet."
Yet,
That word sent a chill down my spine.
He studied my face for a long moment. Then he said,
"You should head home for today. We'll contact you soon with the next steps."
I nodded slowly, and stepped out, Adrian stayed behind with his hand resting on the piece.
And I knew this was only the beginning of something deeper, something he wasn't ready to say aloud.
And for some reasons, I didn't understand.
I stepped out into the hallway, letting the door close gently behind me. The lights hummed faintly overhead, steady and warm, grounding me back into the building's quiet rhythm.
The team member who had left to take his call hurried back toward me, phone still in hand.
"Oh, Miss Sinclair, sorry. "The call took longer than I expected, I hope you weren't waiting too long."
"I wasn't," I said, offering a small smile. " I'm fine"
He seemed relieved and continued the short orientation. He pointed out practical things—restrooms, emergency exits, the artists kitchenette where artists grabbed water during long sessions. I nodded, absorbing the information this time. The familiar routine of a new workspace helped settle me.
"That's all," he said once we reached the elevator. "You're free to head out. We'll contact you when the final documents are ready."
"Thank you."
He stayed behind as the elevator doors closed. I exhaled slowly, feeling the shift from quiet studio air to the broader hum of the building.
When I stepped into the lobby, the cool breeze from the entrance met me instantly. People moved through the space with purpose-talking, typing, juggling coffee cups. It felt normal. Comfortingly normal.
Outside, sunlight spilled over the street, bright enough to make me blink. I took a steady breath and started toward the bus stop, replaying the briefing in my mind, the guidelines, the timeline, the creative expectations. The parts of the day I understood.
But the memory of the covered canvas flickered through my mind, but lightly, like a thought drifting through rather than gripping me. I didn't dwell on it, there was no reason to.
At the bus stop, I sat on the cool metal bench and slipped my hand into my bag, brushing against my sketchbook. The familiar texture steadied me. I already had a few ideas forming.
My bus pulled up with a soft hiss. I boarded, found a seat by the window, and watched the city unfold as we pulled away from Wynford Tower.
As the building faded from view, a small, quiet tug lingered low in my chest, nothing alarming, nothing consuming.
I rested my head against the glass and closed my eyes for a moment.
Tomorrow would come with answers. Or at least more clarity.
For now, I let the city pass by and allowed myself to breathe.