Then I noticed two letters written in the bottom right corner.
R.M.
Robert’s initials.
My hands started trembling.
My dead husband had painted that picture.
But for more than twenty years, I had believed it had been destroyed.
At that exact moment, Arthur walked into the room carrying two mugs.
I turned toward him.
“Where did you get this?”
He looked at the painting.
Then at me.
His expression changed.
He slowly placed the mugs on the table.
“Abigail… I think it’s time you knew something.”
I froze.
“What?”
Arthur stayed silent for a few seconds.
Then he said,
“Robert sent me that painting.”
I couldn’t speak.
“You… knew my husband?”
He only nodded.
Then he went into the next room.
A few minutes later, he returned carrying an old wooden box.
He opened it.
Inside were dozens of letters.
Every envelope had the same name written on it.
Robert.
But there was one more envelope at the bottom of the box.
Sealed.
My name was written on it.
In Robert’s handwriting.
Arthur handed it to me and said,
“Your husband asked me to give you this letter only if one day you made it to Australia on your own…”
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Arthur told me that he had known Robert since they were young.
Robert had been around 23 when he spent almost a year in Australia.
They had worked together at a hotel outside Melbourne.
After work, they listened to music.
They traveled on weekends.
And Robert painted.
“That painting isn’t the original,” Arthur said. “He painted it again from memory years later and sent it to me.”
I was still trying to understand everything.
“And these letters?”
“We stayed in touch for years. Sometimes we didn’t write for months. Sometimes for years. But when Robert became ill, he found me again.”
I looked at him.
