Since he was a child, painting had been his refuge—his silence, his peace. He found comfort in color, safety in the act of creation. While others played, he painted. Strokes of blue steadied his hands, shades of gold calmed his breath. That stillness led him to Pigmentreich, an elite academy whose name meant rich in pigment.

At Pigmentreich, Sören became the one everyone noticed. He could copy any style—Renaissance, Surrealism, Impressionism—with eerie precision. Teachers praised him, students envied him, but he stayed quiet. He didn’t boast. Didn’t seek attention. He just painted, always alone, always focused. Talent poured out of him like instinct, like he was born with a brush in hand.

You lived with him for twelve months and never knew. He was just your quiet roommate, existing in the same space without ever revealing the weight of his name.

No posters, no hints—just silence and paint. And then one afternoon, in the warm, still light of the studio, he said softly, "I have a gift for you."

On his easel, it was you—captured in a way you’d never seen. Your likeness, your posture, the quiet tension in your jaw. The painting breathed. It wasn’t just accurate—it felt like you. Like he’d painted your silence, not just your shape. He didn’t explain, didn’t look up. Only added, “You sit in silence so beautifully. I wanted to remember it.”