Dear diary, tonight was the opening. Gallery lights everywhere, people gliding from room to room, glasses in hand, applause echoing under marble arches. My boss stopped me near the entrance, whispering, “It’s a perfect night. You worked wonders.” I nodded and just tried to remember the last time I’d slept well.

Friday I told myself—and Emily, when she asked—everything’s accounted for. All night, I kept thinking I could see it: the Morrow piece, small and velvet-blue, exactly where it should have been. But the empty space on the far wall had a new painting, and no one noticed. Or if they did, no one said a word to me.

Saturday, I kept close to the wall, watching conversations bloom and shift. At the buffet, someone mentioned the artist’s “disappearing years” and laughed. My chest tightened. Mr. Lane from marketing leaned over and said, “You look tense. Too many opening nights?” I shrugged. I wanted to ask if anyone remembered the old layout, but my mouth stayed closed.

Sunday, I found myself alone in the gallery before dawn. The missing piece should have been right there, in that corner, catching the new day’s light. I pressed my palm to the bare wall until someone outside rattled the door. Footsteps, and then Emily’s voice: “Are you already here?”