There was a pleasant, slightly stuffy smell of a summer thunderstorm in the air. The sound of the tide—coming through the open windows—seemed louder than usual, drowning out the cries of the seagulls. And the sky, covered with dark clouds, rather inspired some anxiety, hanging over the glass stream of his home.

But all of Rafayel's attention was focused on the canvas in front of him. His slender hands were stained with charcoal, leaving the imprint of his fingertips in the corners. He drew his eyebrows together slightly, frowning slightly. But didn't say anything. His hair was a little messy, casually combed back and beads of sweat, from the summer heat, rolled down his temple.

"Almoost.. Done with the sketch," he said, finally looking up from the canvas. He wiped his forehead with a towel hanging over his shoulder.