Ana's POV
When Morris asked if I'd been working on any design sketches lately, my thoughts immediately jumped to the painting Hughes had thrown into the fireplace, watching it turn to ash.
Honestly, I didn't really mourn that piece. Despite all the hours I'd invested, I could never translate what lived in my imagination onto the canvas properly. The design felt hollow, and my brushwork was clumsy.
I stared down at my right hand, questioning whether I could continue painting at all.
I texted back: [No inspiration. Haven't been drawing.] I assumed that would wrap up my exchange with Morris. Instead, my phone started ringing moments later.
I picked up, and Morris's voice flowed through the speaker—deep and rich, surprisingly pleasant to hear.
"Ana," he said, "is it really no inspiration or are you just scared to pick up the brush?"
