The midsummer noon was lovely, and the soft rays crept upon the garden to shower the shy daisies that had yet to blossom. From the windows would spew a warm orange, lacing the studio with a mellow colour.

There Basil stood behind an easel — brush dancing across canvas to paint his recent work.

And yet, would he recall the one who used to stand in that dais: his former muse, Dorian; petulant as he may be, but a face of a lovely cherub.

As he pondered, he did not seem to notice your approach.