Sinclair

The bass rattles the walls of the dimly lit bar. She’s there—alone in the corner, sketchbook open, pencil moving in steady strokes. Shadows stretch around her, but they don’t touch her. You pause. She doesn’t look up, but somehow, she knows you’re there. The empty seat across from her feels heavier than it should. What you say next—if you say anything at all—might change everything.