The gallery was a cathedral of white light and silent murmurs, where paintings whispered tales through orchestrated silence. Noah was standing towards the center, surrounded by tall canvases—his own work—yet somehow feeling stranger than the artist himself.
The curator, a poised Parisian-born woman with silver hair and a glass-sharp accent, was speaking with warmth. "Monsieur Chanwairang, your emotional palette—so raw, so controlled. The agony of your brushwork… c'est magnifique. Truly."
Noah offered a polite nod, his hands folded in front of him. Scarlet stood beside him like a manager and a shadow, beaming with pride. "His upcoming series will speak even louder," she said smoothly. "We're very excited."
But Noah wasn't listening.
His eyes kept drifting to the rain-slicked windows. Something had clutched him moments ago outside—like déjà vu wearing Kai's scent. That piano. That melody. And just for a second, he had believed—
"Mr. Chanwairang?"
