"Every form begins with a line. Every chaos seeks geometry. Even grief has structure — you simply haven't learned to see it."
He stepped back.
"You will draw nothing else today. No faces. No shadows. Only lines. Straight, curved, thick, thin — deliberate."
He motioned toward a new canvas that appeared beside the old one.
"Fill it. Begin."
Rex looked down at the quill.
He hesitated.
"Do not wait for inspiration," Dürer said. "Discipline will outlive passion. Begin."
Rex exhaled and drew a line. It wobbled slightly. Too fast. His wrist tensed. The ink spilled too dark in one place, too light in another.
"Again."
"You have no horizon. No eye level. Your vanishing point is wandering."
"Fix your convergence. Anchor your space."
"Try again."
Another line. Straighter. Still imperfect.
"Again."
He drew.
Again. Again. Again.
Some bent. Some cracked at the joints. Some were so faint they nearly vanished.
