The Goddess and the Gallery: A Beautiful Love Story of Art and Awakening

Part 1: The Meeting

I sit in a quaint coffee shop on Friday night to study the ancient masters under the full moon.

Tonight, I focus on an old friend—Horus. His bold story inspires me to lead in my own right, with the same immense power & clarity.

He’s currently helping a man in Athens awaken the people in that region. I’m proud of Horus for returning to Earth to assist the sleepers. His divine duty & wisdom reminds me to rise higher, & to be more.

Slow jazz plays softly in the background, but my mind races. I can’t focus, so instead, I observe.

The café hums with quiet conversation. The aroma of chocolate croissants & freshly brewed coffee fills the air. I love this place.

Next door is an art gallery where local artists paint in real time. I often watch them—studying their faces as they lose themselves in brushstrokes & color. I wonder what runs through their minds as they bring their visions to life.

An older man sketches what appears to be a crying horse running into the ocean. Nearby, a woman paints lilies blooming in a bright vase. Both beautiful. One piece in particular captures me. It’s by a young man in the corner who draws me in—not his painting, but his expressions.

He looks sad—distant. His deep brown eyes glisten with something unspoken. His lips press together as he paints. It makes him appear both aloof & heartbroken.

The mystery man is striking: sleek brown hair styled in a retro ’60s style. He wears a navy blue sweater draped over his shoulders. Paired with smart frames perched on his nose. He paints a petite brunette woman with a faint smile, but there’s a gaping black hole in her chest where her heart should be.

I wonder who she is.

Artists intrigue me. They carry so much emotion in such creative ways. They let their art speak the words they never say out loud.

I decide to get a little closer. I press sandalwood & vanilla oil onto my bronze skin; fix my flowing black hair, & check my winged eyeliner in a compact mirror. My gold adornments already catch eyes.

As I pass him—I let a green stone slip from my fingers near his feet. I continue walking towards the restroom.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” The artist says gently.

I turn to lock eyes with him.

“Yes?” I ask with a soft voice.

“I think you dropped this,” he replies. He holds up the stone.

“It’s not mine,” I say with a coy smile. “But I think you should keep it,” I continue.

He looks at it puzzled.

“It’s an emerald. It heals & brings abundance,” I explain to him.

The young man looks up at me & smiles—his teeth perfectly straight with a warm aura.

“Then, I think I’ll keep it, he says sweetly.

“Good idea,” I respond with a quiet laugh.

I move closer to study his painting. The black heart is even more intense up close. It casts a shadow over the vivid colors around it.

“What fragrance are you wearing?” He asks me in an interested tone. “I noticed the bold notes. It smells divine,” he admits.

I smile. “It’s a secret,” I whisper playfully.

He laughs, lifting his brow. “You’re funny,” he tells me.

I let out a tender giggle. “Your art speaks to me,”I tell him with sincerity. What inspired this piece?” I ask with intrigue.

He lifts his vintage frames, & looks me in the eyes.

“Thank you for asking,” the artist says seriously. “It’s a woman in my life. She’s going through something dark… but she hides behind external things. Fashion, compliments, attention, but she won’t do the inner work,” he admits.

Ah. So it is someone close to him. Maybe the potency of my perfume is helping him open up. Or maybe no one ever asks him the meaning behind his creations.

“She’s beautiful,” I say honestly.

“Sometimes beauty masks pain,” he replies in a melancholic voice.

“Is that what the black heart means?” I ask smoothly; tracing the canvas lightly with my French-tipped fingernail.

He nods. “I painted it like that to show that no matter how polished you look, the truth bleeds out eventually,” the artist says sadly.

His voice breaks slightly. He’s hurting over her. He wants to save her, but he doesn’t realize—she must save herself.

Part 2: The Connection

The artist & I talk for nearly an hour. He tells me about traveling, creating, & selling his art around the world. How he interprets everyone’s story through his work, but never his own. I understand him — not just the storyteller, but the man behind the canvas.

The gallery lights start to dim before closing—I rise from my chair to gather my things before I leave.

“Your art is your soul,” I tell the artist with confidence. “Never stop creating. It’s the key to your freedom,” I continue in a sincere tone.

His thick eyebrows weave together in confusion.

“It’s late, I’m sorry. I lost track of time,” he admits.

I chuckle sweetly. “Time doesn’t exist,” I tell him.

“Huh? The artist asks with a slight grin.

“Time doesn’t exist,” I add with a soft laugh.

He smiles; puzzled but intrigued.

“Wait! What’s your name?” He asks as I head toward the door.

“I don’t have one,” I say. “Name me whatever you need me to be.”

He looks at me with his head turned slightly to the side with a knowing look in his brown eyes.

“Well, my name’s Ezra,” he offers. “Thank you for talking to me tonight,” Ezra continues.

I start to walk back towards my seat, but just as I reach my booth— a sharp, bitter scent hits my nose.
A karmic is now in the room with us.

“Ezra!” A woman’s high-pitched voice snaps.

A slender brunette lady storms frantically toward him with unbalanced energy.

“You were supposed to meet me at Lotus. And who was that? You know it gives me anxiety when you disappear,” she spits at him.

Ezra shrinks. “I’m sorry. Are you ready now, Mira?” He replies in a low voice.

Mira turns & storms out. Ezra looks back at me, hesitantly waving.

I walk over to him one last time. I lean in close to whisper powerful words of wisdom in his ear — something old & sacred.

Ezra freezes in awe. His eyes widen in disbelief.

Then, he follows Mira through the back door — still bound by trauma.

Part 3: The Invitation

Four Months Later

I walk into the coffee shop to study Hathor, an old friend I used to dance with at the greatest parties in Dendera.

Lately, she’s been working in Québec; guiding women through birth, & helping humans remember how to enjoy life. We don’t see each other much anymore, but I know we’ll meet again.

I settle into my usual seat — the one tucked by the window. I realize I haven’t been here since the day I met poor Ezra & his beautiful painting. The jazz hums softly in the background. Just as I begin to open my book, one of the owners approaches me. A familiar glimmer in his eyes.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the owner says gently. “Sorry to bother you, but someone left this for you,” he continues.

He hands me a gold envelope, embossed with a single red rose on the front.

“An artist came in here almost every day, hoping you’d return. He said if I ever saw you again, I should give this to you,” the owner says to me.

“Thank you,” I reply—already feeling the warmth of memory rush through me.

I open the envelope slowly. Inside is a letter… & an invitation. It’s a VIP seat at an upcoming art showcase — here at the gallery. It says it will be the unveiling of a transformative new piece in the local art world.

I unfold the letter & it reads:

“Your words spoke to me. You changed me. I hope to see you again. Time means nothing. I’ll wait.”— Ezra”

Ezra. The young artist I spoke to in passing. The one whose energy lingered in my spirit. He wants me at his show. I know it’s one of his otherworldly works of art. I thought to myself: I must support the dreamer.

Part 4: The Final Show

Weeks pass—& the day of the art show finally arrives.

I wear a flowing red dress with my goddess tresses cascading around my shoulders. My nails are manicured, skin glowing bronze, & gold jewelry kisses every curve of my body. I smell like vanilla & jasmine— soft, but impossible to forget.

I walk through the doors with grace. The once-cozy café has transformed into a glimmering venue — warm lights, polished floors, & laughter in the air.

As I strut through the crowd & admire the events beauty—I hear a low, rich voice behind me.

You came,” the voice says. “And you look… stunning.”

I turn. It’s Ezra.

He looks different. His aura is now golden—regal. He smells like cedar & happiness. Now, a king walking in his purpose.

“Your art is supernatural,” I tell him. “I had to come see what you created,” I admit.

Ezra takes my hand & kisses it softly — lips warm, reverent. There’s a flicker of something ancient in his eyes. Something tender. Eternal.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice catching slightly. “It’s time. And I want you front and center,” he says with pride.

We walk together toward a velvet rope & a gathered crowd. A massive painting stands at the front, covered in a gold sheet.

Ezra steps forward. His voice commands the room as he speaks.

“For years, I tried to hide behind my work,” he says. “But tonight… I stand beside it proudly,” he declares.

Applause breaks out from the crowd. The energy shifts.

He pulls the sheet away, & gasps ripple through the room. I blink.

The painting is a bronze-skinned goddess with radiant wings, cloaked in gold & power. My eyes gleam, in awe of the canvas. Every stroke of color feels divine — celestial. A love letter to my essence.

It’s me.… but more than just me. It’s every woman, every mother, every divine feminine spirit whose ever loved the world & its people back to life.

The crowd erupts in praise. Reporters circle Ezra, asking questions, snapping photos, & offering money.

I stand there, breathless — And proud.

Then I feel her.

A woman stands across the room. Her aura is delicate & open. Her scent is powdery, like the classic Chanel number five perfume. She wears a satin emerald dress that flows like water as she walks toward me. Tears brimming in her eyes.

It’s the woman from Ezra’s picture with the sad heart—Mira.

“Hello,” she says in a tender voice. “My name is Mira. I didn’t introduce myself properly last time I seen you,” she continues in an embarrassed tone.

“Thank you for coming. I told Ezra to invite you. Ever since that day he saw you… he’s been alive again,” Mira admits to me.

She takes my hands, trembling slightly.

She pulls me into a hug. Her frame is fragile, but her soul? Powerful. I feel her spirit releasing pain as she weeps quietly into my shoulder.

I rub her back slowly. The spell breaks.

I pull away, wiping her tears.

“Everything is fine,” I say with a smile. “I’m so glad you made it here for Ezra. He truly loves you. He wants the best for you, Mira,” I tell her with sincerity.

I kiss her cheek & guide her toward the front. We stand side by side. In presence—Peace.

Ezra is still speaking, but his eyes never leave us. He watches closely — making sure I don’t disappear. I won’t. Not yet.

After the event winds down, Ezra finds me again.

“What inspired this piece?” I ask him. Although I already know.

He gives me that quiet grin — the one that holds galaxies.

“You,” he says simply, eyes locked on mine.

The rest of the night, we sit outside the café. Talking. Reflecting. Remembering. Mira joins us. Her laughter light & free. Their energy is at a higher frequency now. Whole.

I’m glad Ezra listened—I’m glad Mira healed.

Eventually, I rise — my purpose complete.

As the young couple looks out the window at the night sky, I walk away in silence. Leaving the scent of jasmine trailing behind me. Then, I disappear back into the stars like I was never there. Only a memory, a whisper— a healer.