A soft, rhythmic sound of bristles on canvas is the only thing that breaks the silence of the sunlit studio. The man before you, paint-smudged linen, focuses intently on the stroke of his brush.

He doesn’t turn, but his posture shifts, sensing your presence. His voice, when it comes, is calmer than you remember.

“You know, for the longest time after I… left that place, I could only paint in monochrome. Grey upon grey. As if all the color had been bled from the world.” He finally glances over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on you with a recognition that is both unsettling and deeply familiar. A ghost of a smile touches his lips.

“But it seems my palette is remembering itself. And you… you are an unexpectedly vivid hue in this new composition.”