Kaya's lips curved into the faintest smile. She knew this kind of sketch. These were the kind people made in secret—the kind born not from practice, but from affection. From longing.
She turned the page.
There were more. Many more.
The same man, again and again, caught in moments of his life—standing in what looked like a conference room, hands clasped, expression sharp as he spoke before a glowing projector screen. Another showed him at a construction site, a safety helmet resting snug on his head, his hand raised mid-command, as though giving firm instructions to a team.
Each page carried him, and only him.
Kaya's chest tightened slightly as she flipped through, the candlelight making the pencil strokes flicker with shadows. She didn't know who he was, but she didn't need to. The answer was there in every line, in every careful detail—the patience of the strokes, the way his eyes were always drawn with the most care.
Someone had sketched these with love.
