Evan had crossed that threshold in a way. He had died many deaths, or rather his identity had. Evan wasn’t his real name, but his name had changed so many times over the years that it ceased to matter what his name was. Now, he was Evan, a groundskeeper at King’s College in London. A sparrow flew overhead and he was reminded of the myth of this black bird. He stepped out of his flat dressed in his groundskeeper uniform. The jagged keys on his ring jingled as he twisted one into the lock of his front door. After he locked up, he headed down a series of long, spiraling paths, past the music hall, and through the quad until he reached the art gallery. The sun was still low in the early morning sky. Most of the campus remained asleep. Evan began most of his days this way. He was the first to rise and the last to sleep. Today was different than most for one reason. Today, he carried a large, double-wrapped canvas under his arm. It was an old painting, one that he’d created a long time ago.
