“I never thought pain could have a shape,” William said quietly from the stage, his voice echoing softly through the hushed discussion hall.

Evelyn sat beside him, her fingers wrapped around the microphone but not yet speaking. Her eyes weren’t on the audience, but on the small table in front of them, where a glass of water and a neat stack of notes sat untouched.

The session’s moderator, an art professor from Berlin, turned gently toward Evelyn.

“And you, Evelyn? Does art heal, or does it simply delay the wound?”

Evelyn stared at the mic in her hand for a moment. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze and began to...