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I am restoring an unsigned portrait of a pregnant woman when the varnish softens beneath my glove. One touch swaps our bodies. I wake in her living form, wrapped in emerald satin, with long brunette hair and a child moving beneath my ribs. From inside the painting, my old body pounds silently against the background. Opening night begins before I can reverse the exchange. The director mistakes me for Adriana, the specialist expected to present the work, and pushes me beneath the spotlights. I explain the pigments, the altered date, and the hidden signature while one gloved hand keeps drifting toward the weight of the baby.

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