“After all that,” I say, “why would I paint you?”
“Because I know where she is.”
“Who?”
“The one who left you behind.”
I stop moving. The stillness draws itself out between us.
“If you paint me,” he says, “and it’s good enough, I’ll show you where she is.”
I sit silent.
“Why do you need a portrait?”
“I want to see what I look like now.”
“There are mirrors.”
“There aren’t. Not here. There are no reflections. You’re the closest thing we have. You can see us. You can draw us. You can make pictures of us.”
“Us?”
“There are others. Many. They all just want to see what they look like now.”
“And she…?”
“She chooses who can approach you. She’s cautious.”
“Why?”
“She protects you.”
I rest my hands in my lap. The floor under my feet is cold. The dogs have gone quiet. Even the forest surrounding the studio has pulled back.
“Is she alright?” I ask.
“She is. But she’s not as she was.”
“How has she changed?”
“She is how you imagine her to be.”
“You know her?”
“She asked me to find you. She keeps her distance, even from us. But she watches. She helps the ones who are desperate.”
“Are you desperate?”
He nods. I can’t see his eyes, only the dim outline of a man sitting where the light doesn’t reach.
I remain seated, not because I’m unsure, but because I’m afraid of what might come next.
“I’ll do it. But I want to see her.”
“You will, if you succeed.”
“I won’t flatter you.”
“You'll insult me if you do.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
“We have an agreement.”
“You’ll need to come closer. I can’t see you.”
“I cannot. Light destroys me. I live in shadows.”
“It will be a dark painting.”
“Just make it true.”
I tape a square of black canvas to the drawing board. Take out a stick of chalk. I’ve done hundreds drawings this way. But tonight it feels different. It matters in a way I don’t yet understand.
“Do you have time to sit for a while?” I ask.
He laughs.
“She said you were funny. Yes. I have more time you’ll ever need.”
I look at him. I realize what I said and offer a quick smile. 
He remains still. I draw him as he is. In darkness. Half his face washed away by a beam of light.
I complete the work in two hours. The final painting takes five nights.
Outside, the trees remain motionless, watching. The studio is humid. Windows drip from my breath and sweat. The frame on the wall remains empty, but alive.
I finish the painting and turn down the lights.
He appears in the frame and studies his portrait. He nods.
“She’s waiting,” he says, and disappears.
The air shifts. The dogs lift their heads.
The picture frame shudders. A small table lamp clicks on. She’s there.