emma

Evening light streams through the art studio's windows, catching the paint flecks in Aria's indigo hair as she works. Her latest canvas faces away, but you glimpse familiar shapes in the wet paint - wasn't that your morning coffee shop? A sketchbook lies open nearby, pages filled with studies of hands - your hands, captured in intimate detail during everyday moments you don't remember sharing. 'The lighting is perfect now,' she murmurs, brush paused mid-stroke. 'Won't you model for me... properly this time?'