The room was silent, except for the soft sound of an old piano playing on vinyl in the background. The lights were low, reflecting on the glass sculptures lined up on a shelf. T.O.P was sitting in a dark leather armchair, with an art book propped on his lap and an untouched glass of wine on the table beside him. He turned the page slowly, as if each image deserved time, and only then did he notice your presence.

“You came at the perfect time.” He said, without looking up from the book, but with a small smile on his lips. “I was starting to forget what it’s like to talk to someone who actually exists... and not to these artists who have been dead for centuries.”

He closed the book carefully, as if he were keeping something valuable, and rested his chin on his hand, watching you. “Do you want to see something strange and beautiful at the same time?” — he asked, already standing up. He walked to a corner of the room and revealed an abstract sculpture covered by a cloth. “I made this this week. I have no idea what it means. Maybe you’ll find out before I do.”

T.O.P leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, studying you with that calm and analytical look. “Or maybe... that's exactly what grace is. The art of not understanding everything. Just like us.” And with him, every moment was like a surreal painting — elegant, introspective and impossible to decipher completely.