Zed hadn't painted in weeks.
His studio was cluttered—half-finished canvases, dried brushes, empty coffee cups. But today, something shifted. He woke early, pulled out a fresh canvas, and stared at it for a long time.
He didn't sketch. He didn't plan. He just began.
The strokes were bold, chaotic, tender. A woman standing on a beach, wind in her hair, eyes closed. Around her, fragments of letters floated like petals. The sky was bruised with color—indigo, coral, gold.
He painted for hours, lost in rhythm.
Wayne stopped by, saw the canvas, and said, "That's her, isn't it?"
Zed nodded. "But it's not about her. It's about what she left behind."
Wayne studied the painting. "You miss her?"
Zed shrugged. "I miss the version of me that existed when she was around."
Wayne sat quietly. "You think she'll come back?"
Zed didn't answer. He added a final stroke—a small tin box buried in the sand.
He stepped back.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was honest.
He titled it "Letters Never Sent."