Behind him, a storm creeps in through the pencil lines—the sky so meticulously shaded it feels alive. Angry clouds roll in, heavy and dark.
And then I see it.
An eye. Hidden, yet unmistakable—staring out from the heart of the storm.
My jaw goes slack.
It’s not just art—it’s a mirror. A reflection. And it’s looking right atme.
My lungs forget how to breathe. I drag in a sharp inhale and let it out slowly, hoping it might quiet the sudden crawl across my skin.
But it doesn’t.
That fucking eye.
It makes me uncomfortable. Like I’m the one being watched.
I rub my arms, trying to shake the discomfort. I get the sense I’m supposed to look—like that was the intention of the artist. Toreallylook. Into the eye of the storm.
So I do.
I stare straight into it.
And what I see steals the rest of the breath from my chest.
In the far corner of the room, nearly swallowed by a shadow, is a boy. Huddled. Terrified. Skinny arms wrapped around bony knees.
He’s bracing for impact.
He knows what’s coming.
He’s lived it before.
He’s the still point in the chaos—and somehow, also the center of it.
I can almost hear his thoughts. Feel his fear rattling through the paper.
He passes me another sketch. Once again, it’s rain.
I pry my tongue from the roof of my mouth, ready to ask what makes this one different, when he gently taps the page with his finger.
“I’m not in this one,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“But those are my tears,” he adds, like that explains everything.
It doesn’t.
At all.
In fact, there’s no difference between this picture and the last one—just sheets of rain, filling the page. And honestly, I hadn’t seen him in the first sketch either. He’d said he was there, hidden in the center of it, but…
My confusion deepens.
“It’sbeforethe rain,” he clarifies softly, as if reading my thoughts. As if adding more words might untangle it. But all it does is tighten the knot in my chest.
Then his hand rises to my face.
