Chap­ter 256 begins with a sense of qui­et rev­er­ence as Sam­my and Tooms step into the art gallery, where emo­tion and mem­o­ry con­verge. The first thing that catch­es Tooms’ atten­tion is a radi­ant paint­ing that com­mands the cen­ter of a pris­tine white wall. Its light and inten­si­ty evoke a strong rec­ol­lec­tion of Cal­lie Mon­trose, the young woman whose life left a per­ma­nent mark on him. For a moment, Tooms stands trans­fixed, as if the paint­ing has stirred some­thing sacred with­in, awak­en­ing a mem­o­ry that still car­ries both pain and pur­pose. His silence is not due to absence of thought, but a deep inward reflec­tion on what Cal­lie represented—a life worth sav­ing, even at the cost of his own. The still­ness between the men sug­gests that some bonds tran­scend time, and for Tooms, this qui­et moment offers some­thing close to clo­sure.

As the gallery’s ambiance set­tles around them, Tooms shifts his atten­tion to anoth­er piece—“Grace Num­ber One.” Its sim­plic­i­ty and strength res­onate with him, and Sam­my explains that it came from a young woman in Alaba­ma. The pro­ceeds from the painting’s sale will allow her to ren­o­vate her family’s home, demon­strat­ing how art, even in still­ness, has pow­er to trans­form lives. The trans­ac­tion is not just a sale, but an exchange of hope. The two men then drift toward the bal­cony, where the spring air wraps gen­tly around them and the view of Mon­ta Clare unfolds below. The town, once marked by its tragedies and scars, now seems touched by renew­al. Their con­ver­sa­tion takes on a soft­er rhythm, reflect­ing the peace they find in each oth­er’s com­pa­ny.

The mood shifts once more when Sam­my offers Tooms a check—a tan­gi­ble sym­bol of new begin­nings. Tooms, over­whelmed, finds him­self unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly qui­et. Sam­my reas­sures him, rein­forc­ing that this moment is not just about mon­ey or gen­eros­i­ty but about hon­or­ing a shared his­to­ry and mov­ing for­ward. When Tooms asks about anoth­er art­work, Sam­my describes it sim­ply as “the white house,” a piece recent­ly acquired from a dear friend. There’s an inti­ma­cy in the way Sam­my speaks of it—his attach­ment isn’t just to the art, but to the sto­ries each paint­ing car­ries. These aren’t tro­phies; they’re mem­o­ries cap­tured in col­or and can­vas.

Sam­my, when asked whether he ever sells his col­lec­tion, insists that he is not a deal­er but a cus­to­di­an of mean­ing. These paint­ings, he says, belong to Mon­ta Clare as much as they do to him. They’re tokens of sur­vival, resilience, and the invis­i­ble thread that con­nects pain to beau­ty. He adds that they rep­re­sent belief—belief in sec­ond chances, and in the heal­ing of frac­tured lives. Tooms, final­ly able to artic­u­late his grat­i­tude, thanks Sam­my sin­cere­ly. But Sam­my redi­rects the praise to some­one else: Joseph Macauley, the elu­sive man whose influ­ence still lingers over their lives. The fact that nei­ther of them knows where Macauley is adds an air of mys­tery, rein­forc­ing that not all sto­ries end with clear res­o­lu­tions.

As the chap­ter clos­es, Sam­my lifts his glass, not just in a toast but as a silent ges­ture to every­thing unspoken—the love, the grief, and the lega­cy that lives on through art and mem­o­ry. For Tooms, the encounter is a rev­e­la­tion, a moment of heal­ing he didn’t real­ize he need­ed. The gallery, filled with the col­ors of pain and light, becomes more than a space for art—it trans­forms into a sanc­tu­ary. The char­ac­ters may car­ry scars, but in this room, sur­round­ed by sto­ries sus­pend­ed in brush­strokes, they find a moment of peace. Sammy’s role, like that of a qui­et cura­tor of souls, bridges past and present, giv­ing form to emo­tions that words can­not always cap­ture. And Mon­ta Clare, often seen as a town over­shad­owed by sor­row, is offered a sliv­er of redemption—its sto­ries pre­served not in his­to­ry books, but in the art­work that now watch­es silent­ly from the walls.