Oftentimes we view people in history as stern and gloomy, void of all emotion and personality. We forget that they were in fact humans just like us – humans who laughed and joked and felt just as much amusement as we do, though their portraits depicted more formal or professional versions of themselves.
…
Two pillars stood erect in the grand gallery, like Atlas, the globe heavy upon his aching back. Four walls, each one covered top to bottom with ornate golden frames more elaborate than the oil-painted works inside them.
“We try to display as many pieces as possible” the old curator mumbled in his gruff voice, “It strongly resembles the Paris Salon, if you ask me!”
He seemed to find this amusing, and though Dolores didn’t spare a laugh, she knew his words were fairly accurate. Stepping into the gallery was like stepping into a different era. The university students’ works merged into those of renowned 19th-century Orientalists.
Noting the uninterested look on the young girl’s face, the curator made his way to the white plaster door, leaving her with the pieces she was now intently viewing. Truthfully, Dolores was not an art buff, nor was she a pretentious history student; she was here to solve a mystery: a mystery related to her own, rather secretive, family history.
Deep in a gloomy corner of the gallery (mostly obscured by the lighting, or lack thereof) hung the dusty portrait of a boy with a face too pale and frail-looking for his age. The only vivid hue inside the rough wooden frame was that of his electric blue eyes, the ones now staring hauntingly into Dolores’ soul. She turned to face the other way, a slight shiver running down her spine…
And then the sound of ripping canvas echoed through the room, followed by a loud sneeze.
“Free at last!” he exclaimed before drowning in a fit of coughs which gradually turned into high-pitched giggles.
