Virgil set his brushes down into the cleaning jar and whorls of color eddied around them. The colors of his Anya.
He stepped back to view the portrait. He had labored days and nights feverishly, but it had been worth it. Her dark eyes gazed with uncompromising strength. Her coffee-and-cream cheeks glowed with the joy of life. Her red lips hinted at love. Anya.
His cell phone buzzed. He hunched over the screen. The hospital.
“I’m sorry, Virgil. I have bad news. She’s gone.”
No, he thought. She’s right here.