A Flicker Of Light

Vanessa's POV.

Someone purchased my painting. That’s what he said—or maybe it was just my overzealous imagination conjuring the words I’d so desperately wanted to hear.

“Someone purchased Falling Forward? Is that what you said, Mr. Harold?” I asked again, needing the confirmation.

“Yes, Vanessa Miller,” he replied, his tone clipped, as if the notion itself were ridiculous. “I was shocked myself. I mean, I wonder what he saw in it—it’s just a blend of random colors.”

He sighed dismissively, but his words barely registered. My mind was already spinning, too consumed by the one detail that mattered.

“He?” I repeated, the word catching in my throat. A man. A man purchased my painting.

“Yes, he,” Mr. Harold said, his expression unimpressed as he shuffled some papers on his desk. “He specifically requested to keep his identity anonymous. Though why anyone would want to stay hidden after buying… well, that, I’ll never know.”

His words stung, but I couldn’t let them dampen my excitement.

“Anyway,” Mr. Harold continued, oblivious to my growing elation, “he bought it for double the original price.”

The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp, and I clasped my hands over my mouth to stifle the sound. Double the price? That meant… three hundred dollars. Three hundred whole dollars.

My mind reeled. Whoever this man was, he couldn’t be real. People didn’t just do that. They didn’t pay more than something was worth—especially not for art from an unknown artist like me.

Why would he do that?

“Three hundred dollars?” I asked, the disbelief in my voice clear.

“Yes, three hundred,” Mr. Harold said, arching a brow as if to ask why I was making such a fuss. “You can collect your portion at the end of the week, after the gallery takes its commission.”

I barely heard the last part. All I could think about was the fact that someone—somewhere—had seen my work, valued it, and decided it was worth something. Worth more than I’d dared to hope for.

“Thank you, Mr. Harold,” I said, my voice trembling slightly.

He waved me off, already turning his attention back to the other tasks on his desk.

I stepped out of his office and into the main gallery, my thoughts spinning. The soft hum of chatter from the remaining guests barely registered as I replayed his words over and over.

Three hundred dollars. Double the price. A man bought it. Anonymous.

The questions were endless. Who was he? Why did he choose my painting? What had he seen in it that no one else did?

I wandered through the gallery, my steps aimless as my mind raced. The glow of the chandeliers overhead seemed brighter now, the once-daunting room a little less intimidating. For the first time all evening, I felt a spark of hope.

---

Emma caught up to me near the exit, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

“There you are,” she said, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity. “What happened? You look like you just won the lottery.”

I hesitated, unsure how to put it into words. “Someone… someone bought my painting. Falling Forward.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “What? Vanessa, that’s amazing!”

I nodded, my lips curving into a tentative smile. “And they paid double the price.”

Her jaw dropped, and she grabbed my hands, shaking them excitedly. “Are you serious? That’s incredible! Who was it?”

“That’s the thing,” I said, my excitement tinged with confusion. “I don’t know. He wanted to stay anonymous.”

Emma frowned, her brows knitting together. “Anonymous? That’s weird. Why wouldn’t he want you to know?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the thought gnawing at me. “But… maybe it’s better this way. I can just focus on the fact that someone liked my work enough to buy it.”

Emma gave me a knowing look. “Vanessa, I’ve known you long enough to know that you’re going to obsess over this until you figure it out.”

I laughed softly, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. “Maybe. But for now, I just want to enjoy this moment.”

She smiled, pulling me into a quick hug. “You deserve this, V. You really do.”

Her words warmed me, easing some of the doubt that had plagued me earlier in the evening.

---

Later that night, I found myself back in my tiny apartment, the faint hum of the city filtering through the window. I’d kicked off my shoes and curled up on the worn couch, staring at the blank canvas propped against the wall.

My mind kept drifting back to the mysterious buyer. What had drawn him to Falling Forward? Was it the colors? The emotion behind it? Or something else entirely?

I thought about the man I’d met earlier—the one who’d introduced himself as Sergie. There had been something about the way he’d looked at my work, the way his words had felt genuine rather than performative. Could it have been him?

The possibility was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

I shook my head, trying to push the thought aside. It didn’t matter who had bought the painting. What mattered was that someone had seen value in my work, enough to take it home and make it theirs.

I reached for my sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. My fingers itched to create, to pour the emotions of the evening onto paper. The doubts and insecurities still lingered, but for the first time in a long time, they weren’t the only things driving me.

There was hope now, too—a small but persistent flame that refused to be extinguished.

As I began to sketch, the lines on the page took on a life of their own. I thought about Falling Forward and what it had meant to me when I painted it. It had been a reflection of my fears, my struggles, and my desperate hope for something better.

Now, it was out there in the world, carrying a piece of me with it.

And for the first time, that thought didn’t terrify me.