By Dawn Vogel
Dawn Vogel has been published as a short fiction author and an editor of both fiction and non-fiction. Her academic background is in history, so it’s not surprising that much of her fiction is set in earlier times. By day, she edits reports for historians and archaeologists. In her alleged spare time, she runs a craft business, helps edit Mad Scientist Journal, and tries to find time for writing. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their herd of cats.
The paintings were what kept me tethered to this place, I knew that much. I had faint memories that this place had always been a hotel, though I remembered little of its past. Or perhaps all of the years had simply blurred together. All I knew was years of wandering the hotel’s halls, visiting the rooms where my portrait hung. And each year, in the spring, my lady arrived to paint my portrait and to ask a task of me in return.
My lady stood and turned the canvas around to show it to me. “Well?”
I did not answer. I cannot answer. Death had rendered me mute as the canvas, paint, and wood that formed my lady’s yearly gift to me.
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