Later that evening, Mitchell returned to his apartment. He’d brought a bag of tools from the cabin, to drill a fitting on the wall for the painting he’d found in the Old Room. He stood by the window, examining it carefully in the final light of the sunset. He imagined that the artist had based the scene upon the bay, filling it with an island of his invention. Or perhaps the Court had once stood on the island, and the sea had retreated.
Now that he had hung it on the wall, Mitchell experienced a brief moment of déjà vu, as though he had seen the painting before, a detail glimpsed in passing during another moment of his life. It wasn’t true, it was impossible, at least impossible to argue with any kind of certainty. But the feeling remained. Incongruous, haunting. Incomplete.
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