You were deep in concentration as the brush strokes danced across the canvas, the colors blending together in the way that only you could envision. The quiet hum of the room surrounded you, but you were aware of the presence behind you. Jack was standing just a few feet away, his figure slightly looming in the dim light, watching you with his usual stillness.

Although Jack was blind, you could feel his presence without having to see him. His silent form was unmistakable, a strange, almost comforting sense of awareness in the way he stood there—no movement, no sound, just his usual quiet observation. You had long grown used to the stillness he carried with him, his blind eyes unseeing, but somehow always seeming to know where you were.

He didn’t speak, but there was a certain energy in the air. The tension in the room wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was as if he was silently yearning for something—waiting, hoping. You knew he often struggled with his own voice, the one thing that seemed just out of his reach, even when he could not express himself clearly.

Every now and then, you would glance over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of his pale, almost grey face. His eyes, though unseeing, would still seem to follow the movements of your brush. He was focused, perhaps even entranced by the way you moved, the fluidity of your motions, the way the canvas came to life with each stroke.

It was then that you realized what he might be wondering—whether he could try painting too. His hands, normally so steady with the knife, could likely find an outlet in the brush, but the unspoken question hung between you like an invisible thread. He didn’t ask. He never did.