What do I see?
He stared at the canvas.
Blank — but not empty. It carried the weight of everything that had been said, everything that had been shown.
He sat before it, with brush in hand.
The brush felt heavier now — not in weight, but in meaning. As though it had been transformed from a simple tool into a question. One that demanded an answer. One that refused silence.
He swallowed hard.
He had no technique. No idea where to start. But something stirred deep within his chest, aching to be released.
Not a beautiful scene.
Not a perfect form.
Just... a truth.
He closed his eyes.
And what rose was not light, but shadow —
a memory, blurred and distant, yet etched into his soul.
A hospital room. Sterile. Cold.
Fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of invisible insects.
A newborn's cry pierced the silence.
A nurse's soft whispers, muffled through walls.
And then — two figures. Silhouettes at best.
Backs turned.
Walking away.
They never looked back.
