The Faded Portrait
The brush bristles were caked in dried pigment, stiff and brown, and Elias pressed them against the canvas with a force that made his knuckles ache. He was twelve, and the smell of turpentine stung his nostrils, mixing with the stale dust of the church basement where he had hidden the original painting for three days. His mother’s face was gone from the family portrait in the parlor; in its...
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