It was a painting of a pale, well-dressed woman. She wore a voluminous dress that overtook her plush chair; seated at a desk in front of a window, she clutched flowers and a note. It breathed of sunlight; each color used in the painting had a yellow or orange hue. Reading the plaque on the wall, it said: Love Letters by Jean Honoré Fragonard. “Why?” He hesitated for a moment. “When I look at it, all I see is you.”
