It's raining in Paris. Cold winds and damp vapor spread along the stone-brick streets, shrouding the city in a gray-blue mist. The rain slid down the silhouettes of the statues and pooled in the puddles of the square, reflecting the wavering light. It was bad, as bad as his mood.

Damien stepped over the wet steps into the Louvre. The angles of the glass pyramid reflected the somber light of the sky, reflecting tourists of all shapes and sizes. After entering the exhibition halls, he walked along the long corridors, sweeping his eyes over the paintings and sculptures displayed on both sides of the walls, where the works of art remembered by history hung in silence, telling the story of the past.

Until he stopped in front of the painting.

Behind the thick bulletproof glass, the Mona Lisa smiled. The light from the pavilion spilled onto the canvas, softly outlining the mysterious glow of her eyes. The crowd whispered behind him, some whispering in admiration, others frowning as if they were having trouble understanding why she was so revered.

The commentary buzzed in his ears, but Damian just stood still. He expected to be more excited or something. But the truth was - nothing.

His fingertips curled ever so slightly, his palm empty yet seeming to cradle a brush that had never fallen. Perhaps, his Mona Lisa—his and his alone—had long since appeared in his life.