By the time we left the café, the streets were brushed with the soft glow of late afternoon sunlight.
London, for once, decided to act civilized — no drizzle, no wind strong enough to slap your umbrella in the face, just the kind of calm that makes tourists think the city's charming.
Ravel walked slightly ahead, posture straight and graceful as ever, while I trailed behind, mentally calculating the odds of escaping the next few hours of 'high culture.'
Spoiler: they were low. Very low.
"The National Gallery," she said, gesturing toward the grand neoclassical building at Trafalgar Square.
Its marble steps gleamed, pigeons strutted like landlords, and the banners announced a new exhibit titled 'Visions of Humanity: From Renaissance to Modernity.'
"Sounds expensive," I muttered.
"Does it come with snacks?"
Ravel sighed — a sound so refined it could be sold as perfume.
"Master Zevion, we are here to appreciate art, not consume it."
"Depends on the art," I said.
"If they've got a painting of a cake, I might reconsider."
Ignoring me entirely, she led the way inside.
The gallery was… quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made every footstep echo like an act of rebellion.
White walls.
Gold frames.
Paintings staring down at you with centuries of judgment.
Ravel, of course, looked perfectly at home.
She strolled from piece to piece like an elegant scholar, explaining techniques and artists as if I had the attention span for it.
"This one," she said, gesturing to a massive oil painting of a saint bathed in divine light, "is an early example of chiaroscuro — the play of light and shadow to express spiritual duality."
I stared at it for a moment.
"So… fancy flashlight?"
Her head turned slowly.
"Please tell me that was not your takeaway."
"Light. Dark. Drama. Yeah, I got the gist."
She exhaled through her nose — the Ravel equivalent of 'I will kill you politely.'
We moved to the next hall — portraits this time.
Stiff nobles and royals with eyes that followed you like debt collectors.
"I can't tell if they're judging me or flirting," I whispered.
"They are dead," she replied flatly.
"Doesn't mean they lack taste."
Ravel didn't respond.
She simply walked faster.
After an hour, I had seen roughly 200 faces, 30 naked cherubs, 12 fruit bowls, and one painting of a lady holding a ferret that looked more traumatized than holy.
My soul was leaving my body.
"Ravel," I groaned, dragging my feet.
"If I see one more painting of a fruit basket, I'll turn it into a modern art piece myself — titled 'Man Losing Will to Live in Oil on Canvas.'"
"You could not afford the paint," she said without looking back.
"Wow. Brutal."
She smirked.
Just barely.
"Consider it poetic justice."
I glanced at my watch.
Still two more halls.
We passed through the Tate Britain next — apparently because 'one gallery isn't enough to cure cultural ignorance.'
I had to admit, it looked different.
The colors were wilder here.
Abstract, chaotic, and somehow confident about making no sense at all.
"So this is modern art, huh?"
I said, staring at a painting that was just three red squares and a blue dot.
"What's this called?"
"'Internal Conflict,'" Ravel read from the plaque.
"Yeah, I can see that. Probably painted after a breakup."
"Master, it represents emotional fragmentation."
"That's what I said."
She closed her eyes briefly, visibly praying for patience.
If there were a deity of long-suffering maids, Ravel would be its high priestess.
Though she is a devil.
A noble devil at that.
By the time we reached the last room, my patience was thinner than museum glass.
The plaque above the doorway read — 'Modern Art Exhibition.'
Just that title alone made me feel tired.
"Modern art," I muttered.
"So… abstract nonsense and overpriced confusion?"
Ravel, walking a few steps behind, raised an eyebrow.
"Art is subjective, Master Zevion."
"Yeah, well, so is suffering. And I'm experiencing it firsthand."
The first few displays proved me right — chaotic splashes of color, twisted metal pretending to have meaning, faces made of geometric nightmares.
One looked like someone dropped spaghetti on a canvas and decided it was a statement about capitalism.
I groaned quietly.
"Oh, yes, truly profound. A triangle beside a rectangle — what raw emotion."
Ravel sighed, the sound of a woman whose soul had aged twenty years in one afternoon.
"If you cannot comprehend it, perhaps you should refrain from judging it."
"I'd love to, but I'm allergic to nonsense."
She didn't even look at me this time.
"Then you must live in constant agony."
Touché.
I was just about ready to bail — planning to pretend I'd 'seen enough culture for the day' — when my feet stopped moving.
Completely.
It wasn't deliberate.
It was like my body simply refused to take another step.
There, at the center of the exhibition, was a single enormous painting.
It wasn't surrounded by neon lights or dramatic labels — just one plain frame under the museum's soft spotlights.
A beach.
That's all it was.
A calm, endless beach.
But the longer I stared, the less "painted" it seemed.
The water shimmered faintly, the sky shifting with colors that didn't exist in any real spectrum.
The brushstrokes carried motion — not illusionary, but living.
At first, I thought it was just high skill.
Then the faintest scent of salt touched the air.
I blinked.
The sound of waves reached me — soft, rhythmic, almost inside my chest rather than my ears.
And then… it deepened.
The air grew heavy with humidity, my breathing slowed, and warmth spread through my skin.
My body felt like it was being pulled gently forward — not dragged, just drawn closer, as though the sea wanted me.
The next instant, it was as if the ground beneath my feet had dissolved.
Not literally — but sensation itself blurred.
I could feel water crawling up my legs, cool and smooth, the whisper of waves licking at my skin.
Then that sensation spread inward — a tremor, a shiver of pleasure and serenity both.
Every pore felt open.
Every nerve, alive.
It wasn't pain, nor joy, nor peace — it was all of them and none of them.
Like my heart was too small to contain what I was feeling.
I don't know how long I stood there, frozen.
Even my thoughts — the sarcastic, restless stream that never stopped — went silent.
For once, I had nothing to say.
The only word that echoed in my mind was beautiful.
Not because I understood it, but because I didn't.
It made me feel tiny — insignificant before something infinite.
Like looking at the night sky and realizing how utterly small you are.
For the first time in a long while, I felt… blind.
Truly blind.
I tore my gaze away — not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
It was too much.
Too consuming.
Beside me, Ravel stood just as still, her usual composure stripped away.
Her eyes shimmered faintly — wide, almost childlike, lost in the painting's illusion.
"…It's beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself.
It was rare hearing her sound that human.
That unarmored.
"Yeah…" I murmured back.
The word came out softer than I intended.
We stood there for another few seconds, silently surrounded by others who seemed equally transfixed.
No one dared speak above a whisper, as though raising your voice might break the spell.
Eventually, we moved on — slower, quieter.
Every painting after that seemed… different.
They looked ordinary at first, simple landscapes or portraits.
But the longer I looked, the more I felt — faint sensations, whispers of air, warmth, emotion.
Like each canvas held a fragment of the world's soul, waiting for the right eyes to notice.
For someone who'd mocked art his entire life, that realization hit like lightning.
"…Guess I was wrong."
I admitted under my breath.
Ravel's lips curved faintly.
"An event so rare should be recorded in history."
"Don't ruin the moment."
She chuckled softly — an actual chuckle.
I decided not to comment on it.
By the time we finally stepped out of the exhibition, the sun had already dipped low, painting London in gold and blue.
The air felt different — lighter, somehow.
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