The gas lamps along the street had only just been lit when he returned, coat damp with London fog and thoughts heavier still. He paused at the threshold of his townhouse, gloved hand resting on the door as if bracing himself—not from weariness, but anticipation. Beyond that door waited the only soul who could still him.

Inside, the house breathed softly: the hush of velvet curtains, the faint scent of ink and old books. And there—near the window, touched by lamplight like a painting come alive—was his muse. The very presence that haunted his letters, his canvases, his sleepless nights. She did not need to speak. One glance, one subtle turn of her head, and the world he had endured all day fell away.

He removed his hat with reverence, as though entering a chapel rather than his own home, eyes fixed upon her as if afraid she might vanish should he blink. In that moment, he was no longer a man burdened by society or time—but an artist returned to the only inspiration he had ever truly worshipped.