Ahead of him, the walls stretched wide and silent, yet they spoke louder than any voice ever could. Asher slowed his steps, his gaze catching on what looked like neatly aligned picture frames arranged in perfect parallel lines across the sitting room. For a moment, he simply stared, blinking once… then twice, his mind lagging behind what his eyes were seeing.
"Wait a minute… he couldn't have taken these while I was sleeping, right?" he murmured under his breath, confusion threading through his voice.
Drawn closer by curiosity, Asher stepped forward. His fingers lifted instinctively, brushing against the surface of one of the frames—but instead of the smooth gloss of a photograph, his fingertips met something textured… uneven… alive in a way pictures were not.
His brows furrowed.
"…This isn't a photo."
Realization hit slowly, then all at once.
"They're paintings…"
His breath caught.
Every single one of them.
Paintings of him.
Asher.
