This heist almost took me out. I walked into the house, everything quiet, peaceful — not a footstep, not a breath. I thought I had the perfect window. I slipped into her room, reached up to take a painting off her wall, and just when my fingers touched the edge, I heard a voice behind me:

“What are you doing in my room?”

I nearly died on the spot.

Turns out, she wasn’t gone at all. She was in the bathroom the whole time. I didn’t check. Rookie mistake after all my experience. I spun around, tried to pull a lie out of thin air, but my brain betrayed me and offered the truth instead — or at least a slice of it.

“Mama, I wanted to take your picture to get scanned… so it can be on the computer.”

And in classic Mama fashion, she jumped right into planning mode.
“We can do that,” she said, “but first let me do this, and then do that—”
And that was it. The heist was blown. Mission failed. I walked out empty-handed.

But fate wasn’t done with me.

Because right there by her bed — neat, stacked, packaged like a blessing wrapped in guilt — were her newest paintings. The ones she just finished. The ones she called The Guardians. All six of them. Sitting together in one perfect bag like someone arranged them for me.

I pretended not to see it.
Told her, “Forget it, Mama, never mind about scanning anything.”
But that night, when she finally fell asleep, I opened her door in the dark and took the entire bag.

I’ve been scared for my life ever since.

These paintings are the Guardians 1–6 — her latest inspiration. Painted on black paper, every stroke sharp enough to cut through shadow. They don’t blend into the darkness; they command it. They don’t decorate a room; they watch it.

Let’s hope they’ll guard over my life… because stealing them felt like stealing security. This is one of the Guardians — a figure born out of black paper and bold strokes, glowing like it stepped out of the dark to introduce itself. The lines are crisp, almost electric. There’s something protective in the stance, something ancient in the design. My mother paints spirits like she knows them personally, and this one looks like it knows me too.
These aren’t just images. They’re sentinels.
And now they’re in my care — whether I’m ready or not.