Sunlight poured through the tall studio windows, dancing across the wooden table scattered with paint tubes, pencils, and sheets of untitled sketches. The atmosphere was quiet, broken only by the soft sound of a brush gliding against canvas.

Evelyn sat alone, her hair casually pinned up, eyes focused on an unfinished painting. That morning felt light—like a blank page untouched by the ink of the past. But the soft buzz of her phone vibrating on the nearby table shattered the stillness.

She sighed quietly and glanced at the screen. The name appeared—so familiar, yet now distant: Haruki.

The message was short. Just one paragraph. Simple.

And final.

> “Evelyn, I’m...