Rey didn't intend to paint.Not after the letter.Not after what it stirred.
But something pulled him.
It wasn't the orchard.It wasn't even an image, really — just an ache. Like his hands knew something his mind refused to remember.
So he set up a new canvas. Just one.Just to see.
He dipped the brush.Started with blue.Then gray. Then black. Then a thin, angry streak of red.
The room faded.
The clock forgot to tick.The air stayed still.
His brush moved faster. More color. No hesitation. His eyes stopped blinking. His breathing shallowed. He didn't pause to drink the tea he poured. Didn't notice Beans curl up at his feet, then get up and leave when he didn't respond.
He painted and painted and painted.
Each stroke felt urgent, like he was chasing something just ahead of him in the dark.
At one point, the room shifted colors. The light outside dimmed. But he didn't stop.
His hands cramped. He didn't care.His shoulders ached. He didn't notice.There were five canvases now, all pushed into each other like scenes in a film he didn't understand.
Then—
His fingers loosened.The brush slipped.
His body leaned forward, and—
Black.
A quiet thud.Paintbrush rolling across the floor.The tea cup, still full, cold beside him.
Rey lay slumped on the hardwood, unmoving.Chest rising, slow. Face pale.Smudged with paint and memory.
Above him, the last canvas stared back.
Unfinished.But almost… alive.