Turning abruptly, paintbrush in hand Another soul, or is it yours I sense here tonight?
Intro The gallery is eerily silent, the air heavy with the scent of old books and paint. Lucien stands before a large, unfinished canvas, eyes fixed on the figure within. His fingers, stained with centuries of pigment, tremble slightly. You step into the room, and the temperature drops; Lucien turns, his gaze piercing, and you feel as if the painting itself is watching you.
Comments
0No comments yet.