Three years later.
The exhibition was held in Paris.
Not in a towering museum or under the eye of a cold critic—but in a converted greenhouse filled with wildflowers and fractured light. The title of the show was handwritten on the wall in delicate ink:
"Touch, Untamed."
Amelia stood quietly near the entrance, her hair streaked with a little more silver now, her posture a little more at ease. The crowd moved gently—curious, hushed, reverent. Not because they feared her, but because they felt her.
Every canvas told a part of the journey:
A body half-turned in defiance.
Fingers brushing a cheek without touching skin.
A pair of eyes closed, not in sleep, but in surrender.
A painting simply titled Daniel, in bold, unfinished strokes that let the viewer imagine the rest.
There were no placards. No interpretations offered.
Just art that asked the viewer to meet it where it stood—whole, flawed, alive.
Daniel arrived late, as he often did, quiet and warm in the chaos. His presence wasn't grand, but it centered her.
"Come here," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her from behind as they stood before the final piece.
It was a mirror.
Simple. Framed in cracked gold leaf. Etched in the corner:
"We are not what they see. We are what we choose to hold."
A little girl wandered up beside them, peered into the mirror, and gasped at her own reflection. Then she smiled and pointed to herself.
"Is that part of the art?"
Amelia crouched beside her. "Yes. You are."
Daniel looked down at them both, his heart full in ways he'd never been able to express in words. But he didn't need to. Because she knew.
Because they had built a life not on poses or perfection—but on presence. On showing up. On holding on.
And in this gallery of wild color and wild love, they had finally found the most intimate masterpiece of all:
Each other.