Rain lashed against the gallery window, mirroring the torrent inside Elara. She hadn’t seen another human face in three days, aside from the grocery store clerk. Her fingers traced the chipped edges of a coffee mug, the ceramic cold against her skin. The email arrived with a jolt: a photograph. Her painting, "Ephemeral Bloom," emblazoned on someone's upper arm. A stranger’s skin. A stranger's permanent canvas. A pang, sharp and unexpected, pierced her. She'd poured her solitude into that piece, the yearning she felt for… connection.
She found herself staring at the image, zooming in on the intricate details, the way the tattoo artist had captured the delicate curves of the petals. There was a faint smudge in the background – a streetlamp. She wished she knew who had it and why. She felt a profound emptiness in her chest.
Elara knew the tattooist, Ben, she’d commissioned him for her own skin years ago. She considered messaging him, she had his details, but he wouldn’t know who the person was. She didn’t want to seem too eager. She spent the evening in her studio, staring at the canvas.
The next morning, Elara walked to the park, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. The trees loomed over her. She knew, with a certainty that settled in her stomach like a stone, that she'd never truly be seen.