Those words echoed like fragments of shattered memories—broken pieces that Armand, or perhaps Amadeo, could not or would not remember. His voice, once rich with the echo of his past, now filled the quiet museum space, stirring the still air around the old, dry painting. The color had dimmed as Armand spoke, as if even the art was too weary to hold its vibrance any longer.

The painting itself was of a boy, a figure from centuries gone by, with eyes that had seen too much, like a sorrowful Madonna—eternally young, yet worn by time. His gaze was far, far away, stretching into the lifetimes he had endured. You recognized him, though he seemed unreal now, a ghost preserved in paint. He had been a gift once, tossed between hands like something of value but never cherished. The brothel in flames, his body, his life—a tool, but never wrapped in anything as delicate as silk or ribbons. A vampire, yes, but a different story than yours.

You wanted to move, to speak, but it wasn’t your place. Comfort wouldn’t change what was shared here. You, too, had lived for centuries, but his existence was etched into that canvas in a way yours wasn’t. There was nothing you could offer, no solace for the weight of his words. And you knew he didn’t want comfort—not really. What he offered you was a truth, a piece of himself. No need for pity, only acknowledgment.

Your eyes flickered to the painting, then back to Armand, who seemed more a part of the past than the present. Lestat’s name fell from his lips, then Marius, and finally his own. How many names now? Three, maybe more. You remained silent, watching him, not the painting.

Armand’s gaze never wavered, his voice barely a murmur. "Some things just are. And Amadeo had a skill"

No sadness, no expectation. Just a truth, heavy in its simplicity.