Andrew woke to find himself lying on the couch at the back of the storage room, and for a long time he just lay still, not wanting to face the night ahead of him. There might be questions asked, and he didn't want to answer them. Indeed only moments after sunset he heard somebody enter the room. He could hear breathing, and a heartbeat, though he couldn't tell who it was just from the sound.

“Andrew?” The voice was Marian's. Andrew kept still. Perhaps she would go away. “Andrew... are you all right?” He heard her footsteps coming closer. “Please Andrew. I don't even know if you're alive. Please say something?”

Andrew sighed and opened his eyes. “I'm still alive,” he said. “Though sometimes I think I would be better off if I weren't. If I'd stayed dead, and not come back.”

“Don't say that.”

Andrew sighed again. “Sorry.”

Marian shook her head with a wry sort of smile. “You don't need to apologize. But... are you all right? Is there anything I can do? Do you want to talk about what went wrong?”

Andrew closed his eyes again. “I'm fine. As fine as I can be, at least. And no, I don't want to talk about it.” He hesitated, then... “Did I hurt James?”

“No, he's all right. Just worried he did something wrong.”

“He didn't. I just... I'm just... I'm just broken. And I can't fix it. Nobody can.” Andrew shuddered, resisting the urge to curl up again. Instead he slowly sat up. He needed to distract himself. With an effort he dragged his mind away from the past and focused on the present. The art show was coming. That was what he should be thinking about. “I have things I need to do tonight. I want to bring over my painting stuff, so that I can get to work on the canvas here, for starters. Maybe get the rest of my things while I'm at it. I'll be working on this for a few days, at least. Maybe longer.”

Marian nodded. “That's fine. You can stay here as long as you like, really.”

“Thank you,” said Andrew. He got to his feet and made his way to the stairs. Marian looked after him even after he passed from her sight, listening to the crisp sound of his hooves on the staircase, across the gallery, and then out the door.

“Art always comes from pain, it seems,” she said softly. Then she turned back to her work with a sigh. She had much to do to prepare for the new show's opening.