The room is dusty. It tickles his nose and a sneeze leaves him before even stepping into room. Old furniture is covered in sheets. The lightbulb doesn't work and he's left in an almost dark room, the light from the hallway his only guide.

All the way into the back of the room, something just smaller than the wall rests covered. He walks slowly to it, covers his nose with his t-shirt and tugs on the sheet.

It falls before his feet, pools in itself and leaves a cloud of dust in front of him. He uses his cellphone to illuminate the painting and, even without its light, he could tell where everything was placed.

He knows the curve of her smile by heart; he can see her eyes when he closes his. He wasn't older than seven in there, and he looked happier than he would ever be in the one currently hung on the wall of the stairs.

He can't exactly remember the time when the first painting was made, but he can tell the way his father's eyes look softer, his mouth stretched in a way it never did anymore. He can feel the happiness in it, and longs for it as he looks away for a moment.

He can't really understand how someone that looked as happy as she did in there could have left. He pictures his own children and doesn't have the heart to think himself away.

Her hands look even softer than he can remember them, and her eyes are caring in a way a painting shouldn't be. Their hair is the same color, their eyes copies of the other's. His chin has something of his father on it. From her neck hangs the pendant she left him on his nightstand the day she left.

He grasps it tighter in his hand and drops it to the floor.

In his mind are the days after she left. The cold nights, the endless hours crying and asking himself what had just happened. What did he do.

His father's sudden coldness, his now ever present distant eyes.

He remembers posing for the new painting, his back straight and his eyes seeing nothing. It had been just a few weeks and his mother's betrayal was still fresh on their minds. His father had seen it necessary. It was just a bad reminder for him.

A ray of light shines through the darkness of his memories and her blue eyes make something like a smile to appear on his face.

She had been there when his mother had come back.

"This is not my home" she had said after looking around "It's not how I left it"

He had looked in her direction, her eyes still gentle and her smile still warm, and for all the kindness he had in his heart, he looked away.

"No, it's not" he had answered, walking past her with a warm hand on his and a strong shoulder to cry on later.

When he had been younger, the months following her leaving, he had gone to that room only to look at the picture of them. He had spent hours sitting in front of it. Even now, he was too short to cover it again.

Every time he went back, the sheet was back on its place. He never asked his father if it was him. He kind of knew the answer.

"Adrien?" her voice comes from the hallway, her soft footsteps loud enough for him to hear.

"Over here" he calls, locking his phone and turning around to smile at her.

"Are you okay?" she asks, using her fingers to wipe away a lone tear on his cheek.

"Yeah" he kisses her forehead and leads her back to the hallway "Just saying goodbye to someone I used to know"