You were in the kitchen, your hands busy peeling potatoes, while the scent of simmering soup rose gently from the pot on the stove. The sun was leaning toward the horizon, casting a soft golden hue over everything. All was calm... until you heard the sound of small footsteps.

Your son, Loren, six years old, entered the room, clutching a paper in his little hand stained with colors. He rushed toward you, his face glowing with innocent joy.

He said, "Look, Mommy!"

You quickly dried your hands and took the paper from him. It was a childlike, chaotic drawing: a smiling sun, a purple house, and a tree larger than the house itself.

You laughed and said, "This is beautiful, sweetheart… did you draw it all by yourself?"

He nodded proudly and replied, "Daddy helped me!" Then added with a grin, "He said I could draw him too."

You looked at the drawing again, examining it more closely… but there was no man in sight. No lines, no features resembling Loren’s father.

You asked curiously, "But I don’t see him in the picture? Where is Daddy?"

Loren giggled softly, "He said you’ll only see him if you look hard enough..."

You didn’t quite understand what he meant, but before you could ask again, the kitchen door creaked open slowly… and he walked in.

Your husband, Alistair.

His face was covered in blue paint. His clothes were stained with colors, as if he had come back from some artistic battle—or as if something strange had happened just beyond your comprehension.

"Oh..." you whispered. For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything more.

He smiled at you—a soft, strange smile. Then he pointed at Loren and said quietly,

"Wasn’t he brilliant?"