The bell above the door chimed, a silver sound that cut through the meditative silence of Ken's small studio. Outside, the Fort Severn air was beginning to bite with the promise of an early winter, but inside, the room smelled of linseed oil and the faint, earthy scent of high-grade canvas.
Ken stood before a blank easel, a palette knife in his hand. For the last hour, he had been staring at the white void of the fabric. In the three months since he had fled the United States, his art had been his anchor, but today, the inspiration felt muffled. His mind kept drifting back to his near-miss on the road—the screech of tires, the smell of burnt rubber, and the feeling of being pulled back from the brink.
"Are you open, or are you just having a staring contest with that canvas?"
