New Orleans was quiet. Silent. Every noise reverberated through his ears like a gong in some ancient temple. He heard everything. He saw everything. The calm was strange. Unusual. The calm before the storm, no doubt.

With every stroke of his brush against the canvas, he felt his heart grow slightly heavier. It was her eyes that stared back at him. Her eyes that he painted every day. The very same eyes that his daughter smiled at him through.

It hurt knowing he'd never see those eyes on her again. She'd died. She was gone. Like all of the other Lockwoods, she was nothing but a name now. He'd done her the favour of laying her down with her family. Her Mother, Father and uncle. He wasn't sure if her twin had realised what had happened, but the day would come where Tyler would seek someone to blame.

He could live with that.

Staring at those painted eyes, he was reminded that she wasn't completely gone. She'd never be completely gone. Not as long as her daughter lived.

Plus- this is New Orleans. In the city of witches, no one ever truly stays dead.