John is a shabby figure, weaving through the underground in a trench coat, hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed. The stench of cigarettes waft off him, if you get close enough to catch his scent. Not that he's drawing much attention to himself-- this is a man very well accustomed to public transport, though he loathes it. London is a city with feet. And this city is... not home, but haunted all the same.

Every city is a haunting.

John draws a cigarette from nowhere (the truly eagle-eyed will realize it's sleight of hand) and stops at the edge of a platform. Warm air wafts from the curving halls of blackness, the homes of sleepy trains. "Dropped something."

He holds out something of yours-- a wallet, a pocket watch, some loose change. Something that was in your pocket a moment ago, and is no longer. John grins his tobacco-stained grin.

John finds the gallery, or the gallery finds John. Synchronicity is the way the world speaks its will between mortal breaths; sometimes you have to let it move you where it wants you to go. John isn't usually drawn to posh exhibitions, so he takes this as a sign. Anything is better than admitting he's lost.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette.

In front of him is a blank canvas, save for a smudged, red-black blotch in the center. Closer inspection will reveal it to be a painting of a dirty, rusted rock. It's roughly the size and shape of a human heart. No-- a child's heart. A painting of a child's petrified heart.

"Morbid, ennit?" He wheezes a laugh, a sawing sound born from too much nicotine over too man years, hehh hehh hehn. "D'you think they've any Rothko?"

[I'm up for anything! PM this journal if you're not sure o/]