"Let's paint Mum and Dad," Kailen murmured.
The first stroke hit the canvas.
"Imitation. Passed that... Painted a lot of stuff way back on Earth—exact copies of objects, sceneries, people. Let's aim higher."
Kailen's focus deepened. His brush moved slowly; each stroke, however, carried weight.
As stroke bled into art, Kailen wasn't painting pictures anymore—it was something more…
His heart was still. His mind was simultaneously quiet.
And somewhere between a breath and another, he let go—completely.
No control. No resistance. Just quiet surrender.
His hand moved on its own, as if it was guided by something unseen.
Each motion was smooth and calm… yet behind that calmness flowed everything he'd buried deep within.
Sadness. Longing. Pain. Anger. Emotions he felt at their loss.
All of it mixed, bundled together, poured out—through his being, through the brush, onto the painting.
Every color trembled and shone with it, and every stroke carried weight.
