Breanna Wignall

The Book of Chance

The paintings around Thomas seemed like far-off friends that he had once known in another part of his life, so distant he could barely remember their names. He remembered painting each one, and in all those moments, she was there. Katherine, mother to their son, his wife. Hit by another car, sliding on a patch of ice. Since she’d died, life had splintered into two halves, and his insides ached with every reminder of the part he could never return to. Now he stood in his section of the art gallery, waiting for someone to take them away so he didn’t have to look at them anymore.