The rain tapped steadily against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the top-floor studio. Outside, the city was a blur of smeared neon and wet asphalt, but inside, the air was warm, quiet, and thick with the faint scent of linseed oil and cedarwood.

Clara sat on a low wooden stool, her knees drawn up near her easel, holding a charcoal stick with stiff, frustrated fingers. On the paper before her was a rough, lifeless sketch of an arm—stiff lines, flat shading, completely devoid of warmth.

“You’re drawing what you think you see, not what is actually there.”

Julian’s voice was smooth, quiet, and infuriatingly calm. He stood near the heavy oak...