It was a beautiful painting. “The Old House” was hung proudly in the Gotthard Gallery, the wing for emerging artists. It was bold, it was a mix of classic and modern. The lines and forms gave it a nostalgic feel, but the colours were bright, messy and fell all over in blues and greens and purples. “Tristan Lewis” was shown to be the artist in a big, neat font on the side of the frame. Quite a few people had stopped by to see it before moving on.

Another point for the Good Samaritan Team. The Crazy Stalker Team wasn’t doing so well. It had been two weeks since his arrival and no signs of his mysterious patron. No signs of any observing lackeys either. And now this. He stood in one of the best galleries for new and upcoming artists in the city. Tristan’s work was displayed there and all of his paintings had been there in the last year before being sold. Before this year, his work had been displayed at a more modest place before he got a good break and was now hot on the contemporary market.

Truly, “The Old House” was a surprising piece for someone of Tristan’s character. Perhaps there was more than simplicity in that child’s soul. Perhaps, everything but his paintings were simple in his eyes and of no import.

He looked at the time and left the gallery. The past few days had been spent visiting the doctor and galleries across the city to find Tristan’s work. There was nothing in Tristan’s memory of where they had been displayed, although he was always notified when they were bought. Tristan hadn’t cared much but this was now his only source of money. He had to become independent as soon as possible. He made a turn for the exit. He had to buy groceries before going home. As a result of his hurry, he almost ended up walking onto someone. Thankfully though, he stopped just before touching them. He was about to take a few steps back when that person, a woman, held his shoulder, as if to help him. “Careful there.”

She was tall, the same height as him. But maybe a decade older, mid-thirties. She had short brown hair and icy grey eyes. She was dressed smartly, in a navy pant suit. The cloth didn’t look like something that had been mass-produced. It looked tailored. He took a few steps back. This was a woman of means.

“Sorry about that,” he smiled as if he hadn’t been checking out how much money she held in her purse and waved a small goodbye before leaving.

He didn’t look back to see that woman not entering the gallery as she had originally intended but following him with her eyes as her hand felt warm.