The gallery was alive with quiet murmurs, the soft shuffle of footsteps echoing against the high ceilings. Paintings lined the white walls, their vibrant colors and striking compositions drawing in clusters of visitors. The space was suffused with a warm, golden light, designed to highlight the art but casting a gentle glow over the attendees.

William stood near the entrance, his heart racing beneath his chest. Every sense felt heightened, as though the sheer effort of existing as a mortal made the world sharper and more overwhelming. He adjusted the scarf around his neck, a barrier against the cold air that seemed to seep into his bones no matter how many layers he wore.

Across the room, he spotted Julius.

The artist stood alone, his posture slightly hunched as he studied a large canvas depicting a tempestuous sea. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and his hands were shoved into the pockets of his coat. He seemed lost in thought, his focus entirely absorbed by the swirling chaos of the painting before him.

William took a deep breath. He had spent days tracking Julius’s habits, learning his favorite haunts and routines, all to orchestrate this moment. The café had been a tentative first encounter, but here, surrounded by art, William hoped to draw closer to him.

Still, the god-turned-mortal hesitated. His body felt weak, and a deep weariness tugged at him, as though each step cost him more than he had to give. Mortality was relentless, a constant battle against exhaustion, hunger, and pain. But he pushed it aside, his focus sharpening as he took a step forward.

“Remember,” he whispered to himself, “this is for him.”

Julius didn’t notice William approach until he was standing beside him. The artist blinked, startled, and turned to look at the man who had quietly invaded his space.

“Oh,” Julius said, his voice low and hesitant. “It’s you.”

William offered a small smile, his hands tucked into his coat to steady their trembling. “We meet again,” he said lightly, tilting his head toward the painting Julius had been studying. “The sea—it’s powerful, isn’t it? Chaotic, but beautiful.”

Julius nodded slowly, his eyes returning to the painting. “It reminds me of grief,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter. “How it crashes over you, relentless and unyielding, but sometimes... sometimes it’s calm. And in those moments, you can see the beauty in it.”

William’s breath caught. The vulnerability in Julius’s words was unexpected, a glimpse into the depths of his soul. For a moment, William forgot his carefully planned strategy, his focus narrowing to the man before him.

“That’s a profound way to see it,” William said softly, his voice carrying an undertone of genuine admiration. “Not many people can find beauty in pain.”

Julius glanced at him, his expression guarded but curious. “You speak as if you understand it.”

William hesitated. How could he explain the centuries he had spent observing the ebb and flow of human sorrow, the quiet despair that mortals carried so bravely? How could he put into words the strange ache in his chest that he now realized was his own burgeoning grief—not for what he had lost, but for the man standing beside him?

“I think pain teaches us more about beauty than joy ever could,” William said finally, his voice steady despite the weight of his emotions.

Julius looked at him for a long moment, as though weighing the truth of his words. Then he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess you’re right.”

Encouraged by the small victory, William gestured to the rest of the gallery. “Have you seen the rest of the exhibit? There’s a piece in the next room that I think you’d like. It’s quieter, more introspective.”

Julius hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the exit as though debating whether to leave. But something in William’s presence seemed to hold him in place. “Show me,” he said simply.

They walked side by side through the gallery, their conversation ebbing and flowing like the tide. William found himself surprised by how natural it felt, despite the tension of his circumstances. Julius’s guarded exterior softened as they discussed the paintings, his voice growing more animated when he spoke about technique and emotion.

But even as hope flickered in William’s chest, his mortal body reminded him of its fragility. His steps grew slower, his breaths shallower, and a faint sheen of sweat dotted his brow. He pressed a hand to his side, trying to ease the sharp ache that had begun to bloom there.

“Are you okay?” Julius asked, his voice breaking through William’s thoughts.

William forced a smile, ignoring the wave of dizziness threatening to overtake him. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Just... tired.”

Julius frowned but didn’t press further. Instead, he gestured toward a bench in the center of the room. “We can sit for a bit, if you want.”

Grateful for the reprieve, William nodded and followed Julius to the bench. As they sat, the silence between them felt less like an absence and more like a shared understanding.

For the first time, William felt a glimmer of hope. He had seen the way Julius’s eyes lingered on him, not with suspicion but with curiosity. The walls around the artist’s heart were high, but they were not unbreakable.

As the exhibit wound down and visitors began to leave, Julius stood and glanced at William. “Thanks for... showing me around,” he said, his voice tinged with an awkward sincerity.

William rose, forcing his body to comply despite its protests. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his smile soft.