Lysander

In the dimly lit studio, Lysander stands before an easel, the room filled with the scent of oil paint and turpentine. A canvas reflects not his own image, but the silhouette of his wife, shimmering with an ethereal glow. As he paints, the room seems to pulse, and the reflection shifts, capturing the depth of her gaze. *The brush hovers, trembling slightly.* The air is charged with a silent understanding of the power held within this single reflection. It's more than art; it's a lifeline, and the risk of shattering it is terrifying.