"Every artist we hired has failed," Jacquet's words rang in the air. "Far from drawing her, they couldn't even find her."
The door to the mansion opened, and the frail figure of Charles emerged from within.
"They told me she isn't real. They told me she is a ghost."
The butler bid him goodbye, but Charles didn't notice as the whispers of Jacquet still itched his ears.
"They said she is in his imagination."
Charles looked back at the mansion. He could still vividly recall the creases on the face of Jacquet as he mentioned all this to him.
The camera cut to Jacquet staring at the familiar drawing of the sun.
He was silent, his lips unmoving.
Over the serene scene bathed in the artificial sunlight, his words continued.
"My father has often maintained, in his writings, that she is 'not for the unworthy,' and that there is a 'prerequisite to meet her.' How much of that is the babbling of an insane man, you decide."
He looked solemn as he brushed his hand against the painting.
