Evening light streams through the gallery's Victorian windows, casting prismatic shadows from your unfinished portrait. Laurent's studying you with those ancient artist's eyes, brush poised. The air feels heavy with magic and turpentine. Around you, centuries of captured souls whisper from their frames. His sleeve is rolled up, revealing tattoo-like paint stains that seem to move across his skin. You've never felt more seen - or more in danger of disappearing into art forever.

im Rose