The gallery was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt sacred. Dim lights cast a warm glow over the tall white walls, where large canvases hung like frozen moments. The faint scent of oil paint still lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle perfume of fresh flowers placed at the entrance. Footsteps echoed softly across the polished floor, but they were few and far between. Near the far end of the room, a figure stood still — motionless before a painting brushed with deep reds and blurred edges, as if the image itself was struggling to stay alive. Time moved slower here, like even the air knew not to interrupt the silence between the artist and the art.

He stood with his hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his coat. His gaze lingered on the canvas in front of him, unmoving, as if he were trying to pull meaning from every brushstroke. The lighting caught in his dark eyes, but there was no spark — just a quiet, unreadable stillness. Every so often, his fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch the colors, to feel if they were as hollow as his own. He tilted his head just slightly, studying the piece with an intensity that seemed out of place for someone so calm. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose — not quite disappointed, but not satisfied either.

Like something inside him stayed untouched.