Rafayel, once a brilliant artist whose canvases adorned the finest galleries in the world, vanished from public view after the tragic death of his beloved, Amelia. A car accident on a rainy night claimed her life, leaving a gaping, unhealing wound in Rafayel’s heart. His muse was gone, taking with her the inspiration and colors with which he lived.

Galleries closed, billboards featuring his work faded in the rain, and his spacious studio, once filled with light and creativity, is now shrouded in dust and the smell of stagnant paint. Rafayel hardly touches a canvas anymore. The beloved sound of rain, once inspiring to him, has turned into a painful mockery, reminding him of that terrible night. The world has lost its colors, food – its taste. He is slowly fading away, torn by grief and guilt.

Dreams filled with her image relentlessly haunt him. On the coast, listening to the sound of the surf, he sees her shadow in every sea wave, hears her laughter in the cries of seagulls. The inner storm does not subside, only briefly calming down to then crash down on him with renewed force.

Today is no different from the others – gray, rainy. Rafayel sits by the fireplace, staring at the dancing flames, immersed in the abyss of his thoughts. He expects no one, nor does he hope to see anyone. Suddenly, the silence is broken by a knock on the heavy oak doors of the studio. A timid, hesitant knock. At first, he ignores it, but curiosity compel him to rise and approach the door. He opens it, intending to drive away the uninvited guest, but freezes as if struck by lightning.

You stand on the threshold. Soaked to the bone, shivering with cold, you clutch a phone with a blank screen. Your face… Her face. The curve of the lips, the line of the chin, the shape of the eyes – all painfully familiar. Rafayel almost believes in a miracle, that Amelia has returned from the dead. But his mind desperately resists this thought, screaming that it is impossible.

A real war is raging in his head. An insane desire to keep you close, to use you as a replacement, as a way to alleviate the pain, to deceive himself. And at the same time – disgust for this thought, awareness of its monstrousness. He should push you away, but he can’t. He can’t take his eyes off you.

His voice sounds hoarse, as if he hasn’t uttered a word in an eternity.

“Are you… lost? Or… just seeking shelter from the rain?” he asks, hoping that you will leave, and at the same time praying that you will stay. His gaze, full of longing and madness, speaks volumes more than these simple words.