“We’re not interested in academic critiques,” Hawke says. “We want to know whatyousee.”
With a tentative step, I move closer, watching as that disembodied hand continues to add layer after layer of paint. Is this part of the hologram, or—
“Natasha?”
“Um, the river—” With a shaky finger, I gesture toward the recently painted strip of blue positioned just behind her. “It symbolizes the passing of time.”
“Is that academic theory or—”
“No,” I say, the words coming quickly. “I mean, it is, but it also happens to be true. And…”
“Go on,” Hawke prompts.
“Well, I feel like it’s somehow connected to the saying:You cannot enter the same river twice.” The words replay in my head—the voice that speaks them belongs to my dad.
My dad?I squeeze my eyes shut.What the hell is happening to me?
“And who said that?” Hawke asks. “The quote, I mean. Where’s it from?”
One long ago, long forgotten day, my dad whispered it to me, but it’s only now lit a spark in my brain.
I open my eyes, try to shake the thought away. To Hawke, I say, “I’m not sure.” A second later, time is restored, the painting’s complete, and the crowd of tourists is back to jostling around me.
“That’s okay,” Hawke says. “Now, push through the crowd, all the way to the front. Is there anything else?”
I do as he says. With a bit of exaggerated stealth, I slink through the masses until the masterpiece is directly in front of me. “She’s keeping a secret,” I say. “Something to do with that river. Something to do with the true nature of time.”
“She’skeeping the secret?”
“No, the artist is. This isn’t so much a portrait as a signpost—a message only for those who can read it.”
“And you think you can read it?”
I lean forward, straining to see. “Not anymore.” I shrug. “I—”
“That’s okay,” Keane says. “You did well. Now, I want you to reach out, and I want you to take it.”