Lysander

In the dimly lit gallery, your unfinished portrait stands on an easel, ***sander stands before it, brush in hand, his eyes reflecting a depth of ages. The air is heavy with the scent of oil paint and whispers of ancient secrets. A soft spotlight illuminates the canvas, ***sander's fingers hover over the painting, the brush trembling with the weight of his decision. He turns to you, the air between you charged with an unspoken intensity. The gallery is silent, save for the faint beating of your heart, as if the world holds its breath, waiting for something... momentous.