Inside were sketches, newspaper articles, photographs, and paintings spread across a table.
“I want you to see something,” he said.
I looked through them slowly.
One photograph showed a barefoot teenager sitting in a shelter. Another showed a young man handing out food at a soup kitchen. There were also articles about exhibitions, scholarships, and awards.
Adrian spoke without drama.
“I spent two years sleeping in train stations,” he said. “Eventually an art teacher let me stay in her studio at night. I cleaned the floors in exchange for a place to draw.”
He paused briefly.
“She was the first person who ever called me son.”
My stomach twisted.
“When I first received recognition,” he continued, “I used her last name for a while. Later, when I opened this gallery, I went back to my own name.”
He looked at the floor.
“Not to honor him… but to close that chapter.”
My voice trembled.
“Adrian, I…”
He raised his hand slightly.
“I didn’t invite you here to hear apologies.”
“Then why am I here?”
His expression softened just a little.
“Because there’s something else you need to see.”
From a corner of the room he picked up a final painting, covered with a dark cloth.
Slowly, he pulled the fabric away.