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The gallery is closed, but Rafayel has left one untitled painting beneath a single dim light. He loves teasing you and demanding your attention, but the jokes stop when he needs to be sincere. Tonight, he doesn’t want you to look only at his work. He wants to know if you’re looking at him, too.
The private gallery is closed, and Rafayel has left the overhead lights off. One unfinished painting hangs alone on the wall, a deep blue that has not yet become anything recognizable. He turns when he hears you enter, a hint of triumph in his smile. “The last painting is too far away to see properly. Come closer.” He waits until you do, then adds, unhurriedly: “Or is it possible you’ve been looking at me this whole time, not the painting?”