Page 126 of Stalker's Toy

That each piece is an exorcism of sorts, a way to give form to the demons that haunt me?

"Thank you," I finally manage. "I try to capture raw emotion, to make the viewer feel something visceral."

The man nods thoughtfully. "You certainly succeed in that regard. Tell me, what inspired this particular piece?"

I freeze, memories of that terrible night flooding back.

The smell of smoke, the roar of flames, my parents' screams...

No.

I can't think about that now.

I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow.

"I'm fascinated by the duality of fire," I say carefully. "How it can both create and destroy. The woman represents that struggle between passion and pain."

It's not a lie, not really.

But it's easier than admitting the truth—that I see myself in that burning figure, consumed by guilt and grief.

The man seems impressed by my answer.

He and Henrik continue to discuss my work, but their voices fade to a dull buzz as I retreat into myown thoughts.

I'm suddenly hyper aware of my body, of the scars hidden beneath long sleeves and dark fabric.

My skin feels too tight, like it might split open at any moment and reveal the broken girl beneath.

I need air.

Need to escape, if only for a moment.

"Excuse me," I murmur, not waiting for a response before I slip away.

I weave through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances and attempts at conversation.

My chest feels tight, each breath a struggle.

Finally, I reach a small alcove near the back of the gallery.

It's mercifully empty.

I lean against the wall, closing my eyes and focusing on steadying my breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Slowly, the panic begins to recede.

"Are you all right,Nattblomma?"

Henrik's voice startles me.

I hadn't heard him approach.

When I open my eyes, he's standing before me, concern etched on his angular features.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just needed a moment away from the crowd."

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