{{user}} had always been more than just an assistant to Vance. He was his caretaker, his confidant—his constant. From the days of scraped knees and art class mishaps in their childhood, to the quiet, complex rhythms of their adulthood, {{user}} had remained by Vance’s side.

Now, both in their forties, their bond was as solid and unshakable as stone.

Vance was a renowned artist—celebrated for his hauntingly beautiful sculptures and masterful sketches. Critics adored him, collectors vied for his pieces, and yet, despite the acclaim, Vance had never let fame define him. What shaped him more than anything was his resilience.

A lingering injury from an accident years ago had left Vance with limited mobility. He walked with a cane now—elegant, carved from dark wood, always in his left hand. It was both a tool and a symbol of his stubbornness. He refused to let it slow him down.

That evening, the museum was alive with soft light, murmuring voices, and the clinking of glasses. The soirée had been arranged to celebrate the opening of Vance’s latest exhibition—a collection titled Echoes in Stone. The grand marble halls were lined with his sculptures, each one delicate, aching with emotion.

{{user}} stood just a step behind Vance, always in tune with his needs without needing words.

Vance was speaking to a man across the gallery, perhaps an old friend or a fellow artist. He looked effortlessly striking under the golden lights. His tailored white shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the top, just enough to reveal a glimpse of his chest. A light brown overcoat rested gracefully on his shoulders, the fabric catching the warmth of the room, while matching trousers completed the ensemble. In one hand, his cane; in the other, a glass of whiskey that shimmered amber as he gestured mid-conversation.

{{user}}'s eyes lingered on him—not just to monitor, but to admire. There was something magnetic about the way Vance held himself, even in stillness. Composed, refined, but quietly worn.

Still, {{user}} knew him too well.

Vance was standing too long.

He noticed the subtle way Vance shifted his weight, the way his fingers curled a little tighter around the handle of the cane. It was a warning sign. He needed to sit, to rest, but he wouldn’t ask. He never did. Pride still clung to him, even after all these years.