The gallery seemed still, smelling faintly of old linseed oil and settled dust. Jules reclined against the wall, his posture casual yet charged, one eyebrow arching like a question mark as he scrutinized the final stanza.

"So," Jules drawled, in a voice laced with skepticism, "do you actually buy into this? This notion that we’re just… painting ourselves into existence, only to crack and disappear?"

Miok hesitated to answer. She traced the edge of her wine glass, her gaze fixed on the floorboards as if searching for a stray brushstroke. "I’m not sure," she admitted, her voice trailing off into a contemplative hum. "There’s a part of me that finds the formula a bit too polished. It’s a very 'neat' way to describe the mess of being alive, isn't it?"

Cantara, who had been standing undividedly still like a statue infused with ancient wisdom, suddenly exuded an electric energy. Her eyes held a strange conviction. “We mustn’t underestimate the weight of the social fabric that binds us,” she murmured, her fingers tightening into delicate fists. "The tapestry is heavy, yes. But," she turned to Tim, her gaze piercing and profound, "we must never overlook the sheer, terrifying power of a solitary mind determined to change its own color."