The evening settled thick and quiet.
Outside, the sky was the color of old slate. Inside, Rey sat in the lounge, a blanket over his knees, Beans curled like a comma at his feet. The house breathed softly — no music, no distractions, just the whisper of a world turning without him.
But something in him… shifted.
A thought passed. A flicker, barely formed.
And suddenly he was moving.
Not slowly — not like a man remembering.
Like a man being called.
Rey stood, his breath catching in his chest.
His eyes locked onto the corner of the room — the easel, half-draped in cloth, the crate of paints sealed by time. Something shimmered behind his eyes. Not joy. Not clarity. Something closer to a quiet, burning need.
Beans stirred as he moved, her gaze following him with the alertness only cats have when something stirs under the surface.
He crossed the room.
The air felt different here — as if time held its breath.
With one sharp motion, Rey pulled the cloth off the easel. Dust scattered like memory breaking open.
He stood in front of the blank canvas.
Then looked at the brushes.
Then at the paints.
His throat tightened.
He sat.
The brush felt heavier than he remembered. The paint smelled exactly as it always had. His hands, without waiting for permission, began to move.
A stroke. Then another.
No plan. No reference.
Just motion — swift, focused, nearly urgent. Like the shape was already there, hiding in the white, and all he had to do was reveal it.
The trees came first.
Silvery. Lined in soft green shadow.
Then the crooked wooden table. A light source he didn't place but followed anyway. Empty chairs, facing nowhere in particular.
And by the time the brush slowed, he knew what he had painted.
The orchard.
The one from the dreams.
Not copied. Not imagined.
It had come through him, as if it had waited.
He stepped back, breath uneven.
Beans stretched beside him, then settled again — completely unsurprised.
Rey stared at the canvas.
He didn't know if it was beautiful. Or strange. Or real.
He only knew that something had arrived. Through him. In him.
What is happening to me? he almost whispered.
But instead of fear, he felt something else.
Relief.
Like the silence inside him had finally said something back.
He left the painting uncovered that night.
And before heading to bed, he glanced at it one last time.
The shadows in the trees had deepened.
But maybe that was just the light.
Maybe.
Let me know if you want to lean into this urgency even more in Chapter 8 — like Rey waking up with the need to paint again, or sensing something moving with him now as he works.