Esmera's skin prickled. She peered over her one shoulder, then the other, attempting to be discreet even though her heart beat so loudly anyone would hear it if they were standing near enough.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as if to warn her that there was someone beside her, or maybe at a distance, their eyes boring into her even while she had no idea they were there.

But when she looked around, there was no one.

In the gentle light streaming down from above, there were only the paintings to keep Esmera company.

There was no sign of the man who had so gallantly lent Esmera his coat. There was nothing to betray how he had escaped her so suddenly; no tiles gaping to reveal a secret passage, no paintings swinging in front of hidden doorways set into the wall.

The paintings beckoned Esmera. They knew as well as she did how she could lose herself in them now that there was no one to drag her out of her reverie with his teasing questions and flawless style.

Esmera strolled over to the exhibit's next masterpiece. She tried not to think of the kind stranger even as she smoothed his coat's collar. The scent of icy mountain air and fresh pine trees was ingrained in the fabric.

Esmera disregarded the fragrance and how comforting it was, focusing instead on the warmness the coat wrapped her in as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. It was even cosier than her bed. She might've fallen asleep on her feet if her curiosity didn't keep her mind alert enough to study the next painting that awaited her.

When Esmera's eyes settled on the artwork contained within the bronze frame in front of her, her heart nearly stopped.

There was so much to look at, so many colours and textures that overwhelmed Esmera's senses. One element at a time, she took the image in.

A vivid rainbow arced through the blue sky. A path of glittering, multicoloured pebbles wound over the painted ground, flanked by blooms that had all the brightness of reality.

That all faded into the background when the central figure drew Esmera's attention, blanketing her with a sense of déjà vu that widened her eyes with incredulity.

It was a lark with tufts of feathers like horns on either side of his head and a greenish glimmer to his brown feathers. His talons enclosed a glassy red pebble while sunshine-yellow flowers drooped from the stem held in his beak.

It wasn't much different from the scene that greeted Esmera every morning, but she couldn't look away from it.

Never had she seen a picture of her little lark friend, yet here he was, rendered in such artful brushstrokes that she felt she could reach out and touch him, feel his soft, sleek feathers and his smooth beak.

Esmera braced her hand against the wall to steady herself. Her thoughts were spinning, and they'd carry her away with them if she let them.

The lark was real. Esmera wasn't crazy. She hadn't been imagining things, contrary to what the doubts that often assaulted her would suggest.

At least one other person had seen Esmera's mysterious visitor before: whoever had painted this picture. But who were they?

Esmera took a deep breath to clear her head, then squinted down at the painting, careful not to get so close to it that any passer-by might question her about the ways she chose to appreciate art.

The artist had left their mark in the bottom right corner of the painting, as artists do. Esmera angled her head this way and that. She stepped away from the painting, then towards it again. Try as she might, she couldn't discern any words within the golden scribble that twisted in on itself.

Esmera straightened.

The coat flared out behind her as she hurried to the doorway. She returned to the heart of the museum, leaving behind the world that had so enraptured her. She had a more compelling concern now.

She'd had no luck with deciphering the golden signature, but maybe someone else would.

Esmera was trembling as she passed through the doorway framed by carved sunflowers, less from cold and more from excitement.

She had never expected she would solve the mystery of the lark because life had taught her never to expect anything good from it, but today felt different. There was a promise in the atmosphere, in the strange coincidences that had brought Esmera to this museum and this exhibit.

It had been five years since the lark dropped off his first gift for Esmera. It was about time she got answers.

Esmera scanned the main hall for someone who might be able to give them to her, still huddling into the coat. Part of her hoped its owner might pop up again because he seemed to know a lot about the paintings in the Himalayan exhibit. She shook her head to dismiss the unlikely possibility.

If the man wanted to field Esmera's questions, he wouldn't have vanished on her. He was probably home by now. He probably didn't even remember her or their conversation, while she wasted precious moments thinking about him.

Esmera turned her focus back to her search.

There, within the streams of people flowing in to escape the storm was a woman sitting on the wooden bench beside the elephant fountain. Passers-by avoided the spindly legs she stretched out.

Esmera didn't need to ask her if she was a tour guide. The mic pinned to her collar and the museum logo on her golf shirt left no doubt that she was.

The woman scarfed down a bright pink protein bar. The way she hunched over her phone screen as she tapped away told Esmera she didn't want to be disturbed, but there wasn't any other choice.

Esmera had to catch the guide before her next tour started because she wasn't leaving this museum without answers.

Not after five years of hoping and searching for some sign or story that would make the lark's visits make sense.

Squaring her shoulders so that she didn't look like a child drowning in an oversized coat, Esmera strode to the woman. Even the pretty tiles with their unique patterns couldn't distract her from her purpose.

Esmera stopped in front of the woman, but the guide was too engrossed in her phone to notice Esmera, let alone look up. Her thumb scrolled through Instagram with a life of its own.

Esmera cleared her throat as she read the woman's name tag. "Excuse me, Valerie."

The guide looked up at the sound of her name, her blue eyes wide and startled. They flitted about Esmera's face as if trying to place her.

Esmera decided to save her the trouble. "I'm Esmera. It's the first time I've been here in years." She fidgeted with a loose thread inside the coat sleeve. "I see you guide tours around the museum."

Valerie's red head bobbed as she nodded. She locked her screen and slipped her phone into her fanny pack, a small but encouraging sign.

When Esmera spoke, it was with more confidence. "I had a question about a painting in that exhibit."

It took Esmera a moment to remember which direction she had come from. Once she did, Valerie's eyes followed the finger she pointed at the sunflower doorway.

Valerie nodded slowly. "Well, I'm no expert on Himalayan artwork. The tours I run never go through the exhibit, but I'll try to help you." Her words were distorted as she spoke around a mouthful but Esmera understood them well enough.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Esmera clapped her hands like she was a child again.

Too often in her life had the response to such a request been a flat "no", but she had never so desperately needed a "yes". She held back from hugging Valerie. There was no better way for her to express her gratitude, but she didn't want to scare Valerie away with her weirdness just as she had scared away the man who gave her the coat.

Valerie gave Esmera a closed-lipped smile before chomping down the last bite of her bar and dropping the wrapper into a nearby trash can.

She stood. "Shall we?"

The guide stayed at Esmera's side as they headed towards the Himalayan exhibit, smiling and murmuring greetings to the museum patrons who crossed their path.

Once Esmera had re-entered the world beyond the sunflower doorway, she bolted straight for the painting of the lark and its treasures, both of which were so familiar to her.

Valerie was slower to follow. "This the one?" She stopped beside Esmera.

Esmera nodded, then pointed at the artist's signature. "I was just wondering who painted this."

"I don't know offhand..." Valerie squinted down at the golden squiggle as Esmera had a few minutes ago.

Esmera held her breath in anticipation.

Valerie chewed on her lip, narrowing her eyes in concentration before shaking her head. "I can't make out what this says."

Esmera could no longer hold her breath, nor could she stop her hopes from crashing to her feet.
She wasn't getting answers, not today, not ever.

The key to everything was in the painting right in front of her. Esmera knew it with as much certainty as she knew music was in her blood, wherever it flowed from.

This was the only lead Esmera had ever found in the mystery of the lark, but of course nothing would come of it. Life had done nothing but disappoint her. She was the fool for expecting that it would slip out of character, even for a day.

"That's too bad. Thanks anyway." Esmera hated how plainly her disappointment showed in her voice, but frankly, she was getting tired of hiding these feelings she felt too much.

Let them loose in the world that had hurt her. Heavens knew they caused her enough pain on those nights she lay awake in her cold bed with thoughts louder than the cars speeding past her window.

Valerie gave Esmera a smile she might've intended to be a consolation, but it only made her feel worse somehow.
"You're welcome. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more information." With a brisk nod, Valerie turned to leave.

Almost instantly, she stopped, then spun on her heel to look at the painting. "Although"—her eyes lit up as she focused them on Esmera— "the museum owner imports all of these paintings for the exhibit. If anyone knows who the artist is, it would be him."

Hope flared back to life in Esmera's chest. It settled around her, warm as a stranger's coat, and she didn't have the heart to shrug it off.

She had nothing if not hope.

"Do you know where I can find him?" Esmera's voice betrayed her feelings again, this time quivering in excitement.

Valerie rubbed her chin. "He left the museum for the day, but I can give you his address."

Esmera had never met the man, but she knew how she'd feel if people went around telling others where she lived without her knowledge. An address was a very personal detail to be shared with a stranger.

Esmera clasped her hands together in reluctant anticipation. "Are you sure he won't mind?"

Valerie peered down at Esmera. "We rarely have visitors who show interest in Himalayan art, but it's his favourite exhibit. Besides, you seem like a nice girl. I'm sure he won't mind. And if he does, too bad." She pulled a small notebook out of her fanny pack, tore out a yellow page, and scribbled something on it before handing it to Esmera.

Esmera's hands shook as she took it. This was the answer to all the questions she had been asking for the last few years.

She folded it into her hand so she wouldn't lose it.

Valerie slipped her notebook and pen back into her fanny pack. "He doesn't live too far from here. It's within walking distance if you want to head over there now."

Esmera had to refrain from doing a happy dance in the middle of the exhibit in a stranger's oversized coat and squelchy shoes that had seen too many seasons.

She had the address of someone who might know who painted the lark, and it wasn't too far away! It sounded too good to be true, but Esmera couldn't have asked for a better birthday present.

There was nothing to do but snatch the lead before it wilted into nothing.

"I'm on my way right now. Thanks, Valerie!"

The tour guide smiled. "No problem."

Esmera dashed from the exhibit, leaving Valerie behind. The faces of the people she weaved between blurred into one another.

She saw nothing but the museum owner's home in her mind, even though she didn't know enough about it to picture it. It wasn't anything more than a shadow in her path, but it symbolised a goal.

Esmera sped up.

The coolness the storm had brought with it struck her as she hurried out of the museum exit. She stopped just short of the stairs leading down from the museum. Rain still peppered them, insistent enough to deter others from walking but not Esmera.

If she could see her way through the drizzle, she would soldier through it.

Esmera unfolded the small page in her hand. In Valerie's slanted scribble was written Mr Tauram Morghis, 22 Prince Avenue.

Esmera read over it as many times as it took to imprint the words in her memory, then started down the stairs. She held the coat close around her while she slipped Valerie's note into her pocket.

Nothing would keep her from Mr Morghis, not the cold rain dribbling past her collar and down her back, not even the fear that this was nothing more than a mirage, just another hope that would turn to dust in Esmera's hands.