Until We Met Again ( Rowan and Johnson )
Chapter 35

Chapter 35 

As Blake maneuvered his car through the familiar streets, he occasionally stole glances at Karla through the rearview mirror. She was utterly engrossed in a painting she held, her attention unwavering throughout the journey. 

Blake knew the painting well; it was one from his Grandpa Nicholas‘ prized collection. The portrait of the young boy was almost ethereal in its beauty, as if the artist had conjured him from a dream. No one in real life could possibly match the boy’s unreal perfection. 

He remembered the stern rule that even he wasn’t allowed to touch those paintings. And now, his Grandpa Nicholas had given one of his treasured pieces to her. What on earth had she said to him? 

The painting wasn’t the only thing Nicholas had bestowed upon Karla. There was also an exquisitely crafted vintage tin box, which, Nicholas mentioned, once belonged to Rowan during a time when he had lived with him. 

When Rowan had left, he hadn’t taken all his belongings with him. Nicholas collected them and kept them until now. He said that since she was here, these things should be left in her care. 

The tin box wasn’t locked. As Karla lifted the lid, the first thing she saw was a picture frame. Inside was a group photo. 

Carefully taking out the frame, she studied the image. It showed five teenagers, all around eighteen or nineteen in the full bloom of their youth. At the forefront stood a boy and a girl, hand in hand, the other hand flashing a ‘peace‘ sign, their smiles radiant and carefree. They looked like the perfect couple. 

Behind them were two other boys. One grinned broadly, his hand mirroring the peace sign. The other boy sported a tattoo on his arm and cheekily held a cigarette between his lips, exuding a roguish charm. 

And then there was the fifth person, turned away from the camera, leaving only the impression of a mesmerizing silhouette. He stood with one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other reluctantly making the peace sign. 

– 

Even from this angle, Karla recognized him immediately it was Rowan. 

The frame had the patina of age, and on the back, she found an inscription: “17 St. Rose’s Street, Apt 302.” 

*17 St. Rose’s Street, Apt 302?” Karla pondered. What place was that? 

The handwriting was unmistakably Rowan’s elegant and sharp, the kind that made her feel a twinge of envy. It was clear that the youths in the photo were all friends of Rowan’s. Setting the frame aside, she sifted through the other items in the box: a key, a fountain 

pen, and a book with a title that was foreign to her. Beyond that, the box held no further treasures — or so it seemed at first glance. 

Her gaze returned to the picture frame, and on impulse, she felt compelled to open it. Acting on her hunch, she dismantled the frame and, sure enough, discovered another layer of secrets: a hidden photograph. 

As she turned it over, her breath hitched. The person in the photo was none other than 

herself. 

After a refreshing shower that night, Karla towelled her hair as she sat at the vanity. Picking up the photograph she’d left on the desk, she studied it intently. 

In the photo, she stood on a balcony, arms crossed, a furrow of concern etched on her face. It must’ve been winter, as she was clad in a classic black peacoat, a chunky white sweater underneath, and a striking red scarf wrapped around her neck, her feet snug in a pair of Doc Martens. 

With her back against the balcony, the composition was reminiscent of a fashion shoot, her expression cold and detached. 

Speaking to her reflection, she murmured, “When this picture was taken, I had clearly come back already, and I’d bet I was caught off guard. I didn’t even look at the camera.” 

She reminded herself, “This time, when I return, I can’t just disappear without a word. When I put on these clothes, I have to remember to tell him I’ll be leaving for a bit, but I’ll come back for him.” 

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