But one image in the center caught my attention immediately.
A large canvas.
It showed a tall man standing near a doorway, his face blurred and cold, while a small boy walked away with a torn backpack.
I froze.
I didn’t need to read the title to know what it meant.
But the small plaque beneath it confirmed it anyway.
“The Day I Lost My Father.”
“I had a feeling you’d come.”
The voice behind me made my entire body stiffen.
I turned slowly.
And there he was.
Not the boy I remembered.
A man.
Lean, confident, carrying the same eyes his mother once had—but filled with a calm I had never seen before.
There was no anger in his expression.
No hatred.
Just a quiet peace that hurt more than rage ever could.
“Adrian…” I whispered.
He gave a polite nod.
“Good evening, Mr. Cole.”
That word—Mr.—cut deeper than any insult.
I wasn’t Dad anymore.
Truthfully, maybe I never had been.
“I thought you were gone,” I blurted out. “I thought… maybe you were dead.”
He shrugged lightly.
“In some ways, I was,” he said calmly. “But sometimes the smaller deaths teach us how to survive.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He motioned for me to follow him and led me to a quiet room behind the gallery.