Silas does not respond.
His brush moves across the canvas, adding light to the eyes, depth to the gaze. He looks like he is alone in the room. Like Soren does not exist. Like the funeral, the rage, the grief—none of it touches him.
A smile touches his lips. He completes the painting.
Beautiful.
So beautiful.
Soren's anger breaks.
"Are you listening to me?" His voice rises to a shout, raw and desperate. "Are you hearing anything I am saying?"
Silas does not respond.
Soren steps forward. Grabs the glass of water from the table—full, cold, trembling in his grip. The water sloshes over the rim, dripping onto the polished wood.
And throws it at the painting.
The water hits the canvas in a violent splash—cold and final. The colors run instantly.
The blue eyes dissolve into rivers of azure streaming down the white surface, bleeding across the marble floor. Ellis's face melts—the smile, the gaze, the warmth—all of it washing away in seconds, destroyed.
The brush stops.
