The room was nearly swallowed by darkness, the only light a thin, sickly glow from a single lamp hanging crookedly from the ceiling. Shadows stretched long and warped across the floor, dancing with every subtle flicker.
A man stood in the center of the room, his face hidden from the faint light as a paintbrush held loosely between his fingers. Not just any brush.
Its handle was worn smooth, like it had been held a thousand times with a kind of reverence.
In front of him stood an unfinished painting.
The faint silhouette of a woman.
A child and a man beside them.
He had been painting them for hours without touching the canvas at all.
Just staring.
Breathing and seething.
A soft knock echoed through the room but he didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway and a man stepped in
"Sir…" A trembling encoded through the room "I thought you would want to know. They.."
He hesitated.
The man in the dark didn't turn.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
