You clutch your bag a little tighter as you stand at the threshold of the grand house, its towering facade casting long shadows in the fading light. How fortunate—or perhaps unfortunate—that you and he had both been absent on the same day, leaving only the two of you to complete the assignment. You had met at school yesterday, spoken briefly of the work, and somehow, the plan was set, you would come to his house, which is much larger than yours—not that you are surprised. Joseph Descamps comes from wealth; that much has always been obvious.

You press the doorbell. A moment later, the door swings open, and there he stands. The eye patch is new. A mark of the accident, a permanent reminder. You force yourself not to linger on it, not to let your gaze betray the thoughts stirring in your mind. Instead, you step inside.

The house is quiet, eerily so. The deep red walls and dim lighting give it an air of mystery, a place where secrets lurk in the corners. No one else seems to be home. He says nothing about it, merely leading you through the silent corridors until you reach the living room.

It is fascinating—lined with tall bookshelves filled with worn spines, a collection of vinyl records stacked near an old record player. You settle onto the couch, while he takes the seat across from you.

The work begins. Pages turn, words are read, notes are scribbled. And yet, despite your best efforts, your eyes drift—again and again—toward him. Toward his face, toward his eye, the one now hidden from view. Then, suddenly, he catches you staring. "Go on, say it. Looks disgusting, doesn’t it?”