The studio space Julius had once loved sat shrouded in quiet neglect. Dust blanketed the wooden surfaces, and the faint smell of turpentine lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of old paint. Canvases leaned against the walls, some empty, others half-finished, their images frozen in time. The room felt like a tomb for the vibrant art Julius had once created—a reminder of the life he had left behind.

William stood in the doorway, taking it all in. His chest ached—not from his failing mortal body, but from the heaviness that hung in the air. He could see the echoes of Julius’s passion here, but they were buried under layers of grief and self-doubt.

Julius lingered near the window, his arms crossed as he avoided looking at the room. “It’s been a while,” he said, his voice distant. “I don’t even know if I remember how.”

William stepped inside, his presence quiet but steady. “Art isn’t something you forget,” he said softly. “It’s a part of you. It’s always there, even when it feels out of reach.”

Julius glanced at him, skepticism flickering in his dark eyes. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” William admitted, moving toward one of the abandoned canvases. He ran his fingers lightly over its surface, feeling the rough texture beneath his skin. “But sometimes, starting again is the hardest part. And once you do, the rest... it starts to flow.”

Julius hesitated, his gaze shifting to the paint-streaked table that had once been the center of his creative world. He didn’t move, the weight of his hesitation pressing down on him like a physical force.

“Why don’t you try?” William said gently, his tone free of judgment. “Not for anyone else—just for you.”

Julius let out a soft, humorless laugh. “What if I’ve lost it? What if... what I create now isn’t the same?”

William turned to him, his expression filled with quiet determination. “It won’t be the same,” he said. “And that’s okay. It’s not about recreating what you’ve lost. It’s about finding something new.”

After a long pause, Julius finally stepped toward the table. He ran his fingers over the scattered brushes, their bristles stiff with dried paint. Slowly, he picked one up, as though testing its weight. William watched him closely, his heart swelling with a mixture of hope and quiet anticipation.

“Okay,” Julius said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “But don’t expect anything good.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” William replied with a soft smile. “I’m just glad you’re trying.”

Julius pulled a blank canvas onto the easel and grabbed a palette, squeezing out small amounts of paint with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand hovering above the surface of the canvas. Then, with a deep breath, he made the first stroke.

William watched as color began to bloom across the blank space, hesitant at first but growing bolder with each passing moment. Julius’s movements were fluid yet deliberate, his focus entirely on the act of creation. The quiet tension in his shoulders began to ease, replaced by something that looked almost like peace.

It was mesmerizing.

To William, it was more than just paint on canvas—it was a glimpse into Julius’s soul. Each brushstroke carried an emotion, each choice of color revealing something unspoken. There was grief, yes, but also a tentative kind of hope, a yearning for something beyond the pain.

“You’re incredible,” William said softly, unable to keep the awe from his voice.

Julius paused, glancing over at him with a faint smile. “It’s just a start.”

“It’s more than that,” William said. “It’s you.”

Hours passed as Julius painted, the room gradually filling with the soft sound of brush against canvas and the faint rustle of William shifting in his seat. William didn’t interrupt, content to simply watch as Julius poured himself into his work. There was something deeply moving about the quiet vulnerability of the moment, about the way Julius allowed himself to feel without hiding or holding back.

When Julius finally stepped back from the canvas, his hand streaked with paint and his hair slightly mussed, he let out a deep breath. “It’s not perfect,” he said, tilting his head as he studied the piece.

William stood and moved closer, his eyes scanning the canvas. The painting was raw and untamed, a vivid swirl of colors that seemed to capture both chaos and calm in equal measure. It was beautiful.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” William said, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “It just has to be yours.”

Julius looked at him then, his dark eyes softening as a faint smile curved his lips. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For pushing me to do this.”

William’s heart swelled, and he returned the smile. “You didn’t need me to push you. It was always inside you—you just needed to remember.”

As the evening drew to a close and Julius cleaned his brushes, William felt a deep sense of fulfillment. It wasn’t just about the painting or the progress Julius had made—it was about the trust that was beginning to grow between them.

Yet, even as he basked in the warmth of the moment, a familiar pang of guilt tugged at him. The connection they were building felt so real, so genuine, but it was still rooted in the lies he had told.

William pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the way Julius’s eyes lit up as he looked at his work. For now, this was enough.

And as they stepped out into the crisp night air, Julius carrying his sketchbook with a new sense of purpose, William couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

This was just the beginning.