Part 3The Masterpiece Painted In My Blood

Lydia looked like she was in physical pain. Her brow was furrowed with a grief so deep it looked like hatred.

Thomas looked confused. "What? Why so suddenly?"

"I’m just... I’m scared, Thomas. Scared she won't live up to your legacy here. She’s so shy, so stifled. She needs to see the world. She needs to grow." She forced a brittle smile. "And if she’s away... we won't be so busy. Your mother is always saying we need a son. To carry on the name properly."

I felt a cold shiver pass through my soul. She was giving up on me. She wanted me gone so she could start over—so she could give Thomas a child that was actually his.

"What are you talking about?" Thomas asked, rubbing her shoulders gently. "Willa is enough. Forget what my mother says. Our daughter is too young to be sent across the ocean. When she’s older, if she wants to go, we can talk about it. But not now."

His voice was so kind, so full of love. And that was the problem. The better he was, the more we suffered under the weight of the lie.

"You’re a curse," Lydia used to scream at me in the middle of the night. "Why do you have to be colorblind? If you were normal, we could forget. You can't let him find out! He loves you too much—you can't fail him!"

The guilt had been my constant companion, a heavy stone I carried in my pockets until I finally sank.

Lydia wanted to solve the problem by erasing me. And honestly? It seemed like a good plan. If I disappeared, the bomb would be defused. Everyone could be happy.

Why are you saying no, Dad? I’m nothing like you. I can’t even pick out a tube of paint. How can I be your pride?

Then it hit me. I was already dead. The bomb had already gone off.

I watched Thomas lead Lydia toward a bistro for an early dinner. I felt strangely light. I drifted between them, pretending for a moment that we were a normal family of three out for a walk.

"I’ll have the waiter pack up some of those salted caramel cupcakes," Thomas said. "Willa loves those."

Lydia’s smile faltered. While Thomas was looking at the menu, she pulled out her phone and sent a text. My ghost watched the screen.

Your father is coming home soon. Is that painting finished? Send me a photo.

If you got the colors wrong again, I’m done with you.

She was terrified of him seeing my mistakes. When I was younger, I used to love showing him my "abstract" work. Once, I showed him a landscape where I’d accidentally used a bright crimson for the moon.

"Why is the moon red, Willa?" he had asked, curious.

My skin had crawled. I felt Lydia’s gaze on the back of my neck—sharp, predatory, freezing the marrow in my bones. I’d lied instantly. "Because I ran out of yellow, Daddy."

He laughed it off. But that night, Lydia had dragged me to the kitchen. She forced a piece of bitter orange peel into my mouth.

"Remember this taste? This is yellow," she hissed, her face inches from mine. "Do I have to keep doing this? Are you ever going to learn?"

I remembered. I remembered the bitterness. I remembered the gray world and the way I had to memorize the position of the paints on the tray. I remembered never mentioning colors in front of my father again.