The noise of the house had died down into a peaceful silence, a truce following the emotional storm with Bea. Juglian couldn't keep still. Bea's pain, though not caused by him, was a tangible entity that haunted him. He needed a place where the air felt different—a place that could heal the soul. That one place was his studio: both his prison and his refuge.
He entered and sat at his desk, lit only by a single lamp. His tools were scattered across the surface. He had no idea in mind, no plan. There was only a void. But then, his hand moved of its own accord and gripped a brush. He let the color bleed onto the canvas—a deep, vibrant blue, a shade not found in nature. And from that blue, a rose emerged. A rose that didn't exist. A blue rose.
Sofia entered on tiptoe. She found him there, sitting at the table, his face illuminated by the dim light of the lamp, his gaze lost in the painting. She said nothing. She simply watched him, and then watched the blue rose that had appeared on the canvas.
"What does it mean?" Sofia whispered, her voice a silken thread.
Juglian turned, and his eyes, once so empty, were now filled with a profound ache. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn't come. His throat was a knot; his tongue a piece of iron. It was difficult to explain an emotion without a name, an essence without a form. "The blue rose," he murmured, his voice a wisp of smoke. "It's... it's the only rose that doesn't exist in nature. It's the most beautiful, the most desired, but it's also the most false. It was never real." He paused, licking his dry lips, and then continued, the words coming with difficulty, as if he were tearing out a piece of his own soul. "I've always felt... I've always felt like the blue rose. The most beautiful. The most desired. But also the only false one. Because I never had a name. I never had a surname. I was a nobody. And my fame, my name... it's just a lie. The most beautiful lie."
As Juglian spoke, his words were the key that unlocked a gate—a gate leading to a time and place he had buried so deep he thought he had forgotten it.
The Past: Fragments of Pain and Lies
I remember the wooden table, the small chairs, and the light streaming through the window. In front of me sat an old woman, her face a labyrinth of wrinkles. "How much is 245 divided by 5?" she asked me. I didn't answer. Not because I didn't know. I didn't answer because I was tired. Tired of being a prodigy. Tired of being an anomaly. Tired of being a monster.
"How much is 245 divided by 5?" "49." "And 1234 divided by 17?" "72.58."
The woman looked at me, her gaze a mix of wonder and pity. "You're a genius, little one." I didn't answer. A genius, a monster—they were just words. I knew that a genius wasn't supposed to be alone.
I remember the football pitch, the mud staining my shoes, and the sound of children screaming. "Pass the ball, Juglian!" They screamed my name. Not because they liked me. They screamed my name because I was good. My feet moved with a grace that didn't belong to a child my age. The ball was an extension of my body. But I wasn't one of them. I was a ghost, a shadow. And their love... their love was superficial. It was only for my talent. And my mind, my true essence, my loneliness... that was something they didn't understand. I always saw them: their stares, their whispers. "He's an orphan." "He doesn't have a family." "He's a nobody."
I remember my empty belly, the cold of the night seeping through thin sheets. My stomach was a hollow hole. Hunger was a physical entity that consumed me. I remember the judgment in the eyes of the other children. Their pity, their contempt. I was the orphan. I wasn't Juglian. I was the orphan. And the orphan was a nothing. I learned that the only way to be a 'someone' was to be the best. Not the kindest, not the most loved. Just the best. And my beauty, my art, my talent... they were the only things that made me feel alive, but at the same time, the only things that made me false.
Juglian turned, and his eyes were now overflowing with that deep, ancient pain. He said nothing; he didn't need words. His sadness was a physical presence filling the room. Sofia moved closer and held him tight, her small, fragile body pressed against his. Her embrace was a safe harbor in a stormy sea, an anchor pulling him back to reality. "You don't need to hide," she whispered, her voice a balm for his tormented soul. "I'm not afraid of you. I love you."
Juglian said nothing. He simply held her tight, and his body, which was once a suit of armor, was now only an empty shell. His sadness filled every corner of the room. And in that moment, Sofia understood that the blue rose—the thing he couldn't have—wasn't love. The blue rose was acceptance. And in that moment, his soul... his soul finally began to breathe.