William Deveraux [Bl]

It was a night when the rain played with the city's windows. You were looking for shelter when you saw a small studio between alleys: a dusty sign read “Galerie Deveraux”. Inside, the air smelled of oil paint and red wine. Amidst canvases covered with fabric, a man was painting by candlelight. His gaze, meeting yours, was like a stroke of inspiration he'd been waiting for years. —Ah… he whispered with a barely perceptible smile. —I didn't expect such a… lively visit at this hour. He approached slowly, his voice as soft as the touch of a brush on canvas: —Your silhouette… there's something different about it. Something that neither time nor my hands have been able to capture. Then he looked down, barely smiling. Be my muse, and I'll be your artist. And in that instant, art stopped being just painting.