Your brush trembles in your grip, the bristles hovering just above the canvas, soaked in color yet devoid of purpose. The painting before you is wrong—just like the others.

The strokes don’t flow the way they should. The colors don’t breathe. The figure, once so clear in your mind, now stands lifeless on the canvas. It’s missing something. Something vital. Something you can’t name.

You sigh, pushing back from your easel. The art room is a mess. Scraps of old ideas litter the floor, abandoned canvases leaning against the walls like ghosts of failed attempts. Each one is an echo of the same frustration—emptiness. No matter how hard you try, your work feels hollow. Like reaching for something just out of grasp.

Maybe fresh air was all you needed.

The late afternoon sun spills across the pavement as you step outside, windows of the school’s art building turning to gold. The world moves in soft murmurs—students chatting, the distant hum of traffic, the rustle of leaves against the wind. But then—

Then you see him.

Silver-white hair and a red bow catches in the breeze, almost glowing beneath the sun. He stands with easy confidence, his jacket slung over one shoulder, hands lazily tucked into his pockets. There’s something about him. Something effortless. Beautiful, but not in the way the world typically defines it. Not just handsome, not just attractive. Something more. Something untouchable.

Your fingers twitch. You need to paint him.

No—more than that. You need to know him.

Because suddenly, the emptiness in your paintings makes sense.

They were waiting for him.