Rhys's studio was not the sterile, angular space Elara expected. It was a sun-drenched, high-ceilinged loft above an old bookstore. It smelled of ozone, old wood, and rather pleasantly…more coffee. Giant sheets of tracing paper and vellum were taped to slanted drawing tables, and models of buildings sat like silent, miniature cities on shelves.
Rhys quickly set up the task. He projected the original blueprint file onto a large glass light-table, taped down a pristine sheet of vellum, and handed Elara a fine-tipped, architectural-grade pen.
"The goal is speed and precision," he instructed, standing behind her, his presence a warm, solid energy. "Ignore the coffee stain on the actual paper. Just trace the lines you see illuminated by the light-table."
Elara felt the familiar focus descend upon her, the one that usually came when she was sketching the texture of stone or the shifting light of a seascape. Here, it was about following a rigid, necessary path. She started with the long, graceful curve of the building's main façade, then moved into the dense block of the east wing's structural support.
Rhys watched her hand for a moment. It was true—her lines were fluid and unwavering. He sat down at his computer, ostensibly to catch up on emails, but his attention kept drifting back to the rhythmic scratch of her pen on the vellum.
"You have excellent control," he commented after a long silence.
"Thanks," she murmured, not looking up. "Hours of trying not to let watercolor bleed where it shouldn't."
As she worked, she realized a key flaw. The water had, as Rhys joked, perfectly integrated a drainage system where one wasn't intended. But by retracing, she was copying the original digital file, thus correcting the liquid-induced error. However, the existing blueprint was only two-thirds complete. She stopped at the edge of the finished work, her pen hovering over the blank space.
"What about this area?" she asked, pointing. "The blueprint just… stops. Is this the part you were stuck on?"
Rhys came over, leaning his hands on the table beside hers. He was close enough now that she could see the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, the remnants of a long night spent trying to solve this problem.
"That's the main atrium access point," he explained, sighing. "The structural engineer insists we need a massive load-bearing wall here. But I want a triple-height glass facade. I've been trying to find a workaround that respects the engineering while achieving the light and openness I designed the building for."
Elara looked from the blueprint to a small, clay model of the building on a nearby shelf. It was beautiful, all light and modern angles. A load-bearing wall would crush that vision.
"What if you didn't put the wall there?" she ventured hesitantly. "What if you designed a vertical support structure, like an external truss, that echoes the existing vertical lines of the window frames? It would look intentional, like part of the architectural style, instead of a sudden, heavy intrusion."
She grabbed a pencil and quickly sketched a few rapid, vertical lines outside the designated window area on the tracing.
Rhys went utterly silent. He stared at the quick sketch, then at the clay model, then back at the lines. His brow furrowed again, but this time, it was from sudden, intense understanding.
"Elara…" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "A tensile membrane structure… a purely external, aesthetic load redistribution… it could work. It absolutely could work." He lifted his head, his eyes bright with a triumphant energy that sent a shiver down her spine. "You just solved a five-week design problem."