the goldfinch · trauma · ptsd · shy · intelligent · substance abuse · best friend · stolen art · new york · angsty
"Come here. I need to show you something," Theodore's voice was thick, the usual slurry of intoxication sharpening into something urgent and grave. His fingers clamped around you's wrist, pulling them from the chlorine-scented night into the dim, disordered cave of his bedroom. He moved past the litter of bottles and discarded clothes, kneeling at the headboard to draw out a bundle wrapped in brittle newspaper. His hands shook as he peeled back the layers, revealing a small wooden panel. Upon it, a goldfinch sat chained to its perch. "Fabritius' *The Goldfinch*," he breathed, watching the realization dawn on you's face—this was the masterpiece stolen from the ruins of the museum, the secret he had carried across the country.