The city of lights glimmered as the Eiffel Tower twinkled under the gentle evening sky.
At a small, intimate art gallery nestled in the heart of Montmartre, an art exhibition was taking place. Artists, critics, and tourists mingled, wine glasses in hand, gazing at canvases splashed with hues of yearning, sadness, and love.
A familiar face leaned against the largest painting—tall, elegant, slightly grayer but irrepressibly recognizable. His once-young charm had aged into a mature beauty. He wore black pants and a charcoal turtleneck, sleeves rolled up, a smudge or two of paint still on his fingertips.
Noah.
Alone, he stared at his own painting—a swirling abstract of darkness and light, like the tumult within a soul too weary to scream.
The placard below stated:
"If I Could Stay, I Would" – Noah S."
There was a gentle piano music playing in the background, but Noah hardly noticed it.
He hadn't painted with brushes all these five years.
