Billy stood in front of the mirror, the sketchbook now closed and resting gently on the desk. He didn't reach for it again. Not yet.
His eyes rose to the reflection — pale morning light casting soft lines on his cheekbones.
His hair still a little messy from sleep. A faint crease on his shirt from sitting too long at the table.
He didn't look like a man heading toward a future. But maybe that was the point.
He opened the small drawer near his bedside table and pulled out a watch. Worn leather strap. A scratch on the edge of the glass. Familiar — but not remembered.
He fastened it anyway.
Then he went to the closet, pulled out a button-down — something clean, simple, not formal. No cologne. No sharp grooming. Just a tidy version of himself. Presentable but real.
As he adjusted the cuffs, he glanced at the mirror again.
There was a stillness in his eyes. Not emptiness. Not fear. Just stillness. As if he was listening to something quiet inside him.
