My Husband Lives Inside a Painting Chapter 2

***

 

Suicide.

Camille’s cause of death could be summed up in just two words.

But perhaps because it was so simple, I still couldn’t believe it.

He had taken his own life.

And on the very day of his twentieth birthday celebration, no less, in such a brutal manner that his face was unrecognizable.

……Why?

“Ugh……”

Feeling like I was about to throw up at any moment, I left the place with a deathly pale face.

There was no one around on the way back to the estate. The rain was still drizzling, and I walked along the muddy path in my black shoes, holding an umbrella.

Splash, splash.

The wet sound lingered in my ears.

Then my eyes suddenly felt unbearably dry, so I rubbed them with my sleeve.

That was when the tip of my foot accidentally stepped on something.

A single white chrysanthemum.

“My lady. When spring comes, let’s go see the flowers together.”

Camille’s voice came back to me with startling clarity.

It was as though he were speaking right behind me.

“I heard there’s a garden filled with flowers in the western territory. Apparently, there’s a beautiful lake there, too.”

I bit my lip.

It felt as though something was boiling inside me.

“……Disgusting.”

I was probably saying that to myself.

“I want to know more about you, my lady.”

“You were curious about something last time, too. What is it this time?”

“Anything is fine. Your hobbies, or even little things.”

“……I like painting. Though I’m not particularly good at it.”

It was the day I had finally opened up to him for the first time, after he was always so curious about me.

I had only told him because I had been struck by a whim.

Because Camille’s smile had been especially bright that day, like sunlight.

……That was all.

After that day, Camille came to know every little thing about me.

He was always asking about me.

But what about me?

Had I ever asked him about himself even once?

‘If I’d known this would happen, I should have talked to him more.’

It was a meaningless regret that occurred to me as I wandered through the cold corridors.

As I aimlessly roamed the estate, I discovered a half-open door at the end of a corridor I had never visited before.

A distinct, dry smell, the kind that lingered only after construction had just been completed, seeped through the crack in the door.

Perhaps finding that room had been fate.

“……!”

Inside the small room, where moonlight streamed in through the windows, stood an easel and an empty canvas.

On the table, paints, brushes, and a palette had been neatly arranged.

Suddenly, I remembered what Camille had said to me yesterday as I left the banquet hall earlier than everyone else.

“Tomorrow, there’s something I absolutely want to show you.”

At that moment, I found it hard to breathe.

“……Was this what you meant?”

I had completely forgotten about the words spoken by the very person who had said them.

That foolish man.

What had he possibly seen in that shabby woman who was prickly, had no charm whatsoever, and whom he must have believed hated him?

Only then did I realize what the emotion constricting my chest really was.

“Ah……”

I collapsed right in front of the studio.

Tears dripped down through my disheveled hair.

“Why, why did I……!”

‘Why did I treat Camille like that?’

It was guilt toward the one person who had loved me.

The only one.

 

***

 

Starting the next day, I began painting as though possessed.

“My lady! I heard that the Second Young Master just arrived. He’ll be staying here with us from now on, so you should at least go and greet—”

“I’ll do it later. I’m busy right now.”

“Ah……”

Romaine.

My personal maid had come to see me first thing in the morning and kept talking without pause.

“B-But apparently, he’s really handsome! I heard he spent a long time in the borderlands. It’ll be my first time meeting him, too, but I’m sure there must be a lot we can learn from him.”

“Then you can go to my place.”

“M-Me?”

“Yes. Go and tell me what you think afterward.”

But when I continued responding coldly, much as I had the day before, she eventually made a small unng…… sound and fell silent.

A little while later, she asked with a resigned sigh,

“Are you planning to stay in the studio all day again today?”

At her direct question, my lips pressed tightly together instead.

“It would be better if you went for a walk, even for a little while…… You haven’t been eating properly lately, either.”

I could feel her persistent gaze on my back, but I pretended not to notice and kept my eyes fixed on the canvas.

“My lady……”

There was a reason why even she, who normally never interfered in my affairs, was meddling now.

It had already been a week since I began shutting myself inside the studio, barely eating or even washing myself.

But I couldn’t put down my brush.

‘I miss Camille.’

I couldn’t endure it without holding on to my fading memories.

I had to capture his image on the canvas.

Only then could I breathe.

Because there wasn’t a single portrait of Camille in this entire estate.

But how could that be?

‘How could the eldest son of the House of Ortega not have a single portrait?’

I had countless questions, but I couldn’t ask Belladonna for the reason.

So I came to my own conclusion.

‘I’ll paint him myself. Camille’s portrait.’

After Romaine stood there like a stone statue for a long while before finally leaving the studio, I immediately lifted the bottle of wine and drank straight from it.

Gulp, gulp.

“Ugh…… Urgh.”

Drinking on an empty stomach was absolutely miserable.

But there was nothing better for making my thoughts evaporate.

“Where…… is the yellow paint?”

Everything was improvised.

Squeezing out the paints, choosing the colors—

I did it all without thinking.

Without even being conscious of which colors I was using, I simply swung my brush across the canvas.

But they say inspiration comes from melancholy.

‘Why is this turning out so well?’

And then, how much time had passed?

Crash—!

The wine bottle fell to the floor and shattered, and I suddenly came to my senses.

“……!”

My husband’s face was smiling at me, with the exact same smile I had seen so many times.

Camille was right before my eyes.

I had finally done it.

I had finished him.

“Ah……”

I let the brush slip from my hand.

Then, as if possessed, I reached toward the painting—

Only to collapse forward.

Crash!

“Ah……”

My knee throbbed as though it were bleeding, but my eyes remained fixed on the painting until the very end.

I barely managed to pull myself up and placed both hands on the canvas.

“Ca, Camille.”

Wet paint smeared across my trembling palms, but I didn’t care.

“……Why did you leave me behind and die?”

The studio was shrouded in darkness.

Between the flickering candlelight, my shadow stretched long across the floor as I knelt there like a sinner.

“Did you really take your own life?”

Camille was still smiling.

Standing in the middle of a field of flowers, looking down at me.

“Why……? Was it because I treated you badly?”

As my vision gradually blurred, I lowered my head.

Soon, my hoarse voice echoed through the room.

“I’m sorry……”

How futile it was to confess my wrongdoings to someone who had already left this world.

Even though I knew the person who needed to hear these words wasn’t here.

“I-I’m sorry for everything, so can’t you stay by my side? Hm?”

Some people say that regret is a privilege only humans can possess.

But how could an emotion that only arises when something can no longer be undone possibly be called a privilege?

“Please.”

With my face buried against the painting, my voice grew so quiet that I could no longer hear it.

“Camille……”

Dong— Dong—

At that moment, the grandfather clock in the corner of the studio chimed the hour.

……Even though the hour hand wasn’t pointing to the hour.

‘4:44?’

Just as my shoulders stiffened slightly after checking the time, a breeze swept through the room from somewhere.

“Orb.”

A young, beautiful voice.

“My love. Come over here.”

“……!”

I sucked in a breath and sprang to my feet.

I had gotten up so quickly that my vision briefly went dark.

“Ugh……”

Holding onto my unsteady body, I looked around the room again.

But there was no one.

Not inside the studio, nor in the half-open corridor.

“Wh-Who are you?”

Then, this time from much closer, the voice rang out once more.

“Who do you think? I’m your husband.”