It was a typical Saturday evening—or at least, it started that way. Instead of settling in and relaxing like most people might, you and your husband decided to be productive for once, diving headfirst into a full-blown decluttering spree.

Stacks of old papers, faded sketches, and crumpled bills quickly spread across the floor. The trash bin overflowed with long-forgotten trinkets and useless odds and ends, but the chaos only seemed to multiply the deeper you dug. It was bordering on absurd.

In the middle of it all, Rafayel stumbled upon one of his old, long-lost pencils—almost as if it had been waiting for him. Without a word, he plopped down among the piles of old mail and began sketching, using whatever blank corners of outdated documents he could find.

You were mid-motion, tossing another handful of letters into the trash when he caught your wrist. Gently but firmly, he pulled you down into his lap, grounding you in his world for a moment.

“Look what I drew,” he murmured, soft and absentminded, his voice barely above a whisper. In one hand, he held a scrap of paper with a simple drawing: the two of you sitting on a beach, talking like no one else existed. His other hand curled around yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your wedding ring—the very one he’d forged himself, with meticulous care and a quiet, burning devotion.

He always drew the two of you. Sometimes the pieces were rough, unfinished; other times, detailed and precise. But no matter the result, there was always a quiet pride in his expression—like he was capturing something sacred, something only he saw.