The studio stood as a battlefield of color and despair,
Canvases propped like fallen warriors against the walls—
Their once-vivid shades dulled by the faint, grimy light
Seeping through windows that had long forgotten warmth.
Elias's heart thundered,
A wild rhythm fueled by the terror
That had seized him
Since deciphering Celeste's cryptic note.
"Celeste!" he rasped,
His voice shredded by a cough
That clawed at his fragile lungs.
He stumbled through the clutter—
Brushes scattered like bones,
Paint tubes crushed underfoot,
The scent of turpentine sharp and sickening.
His eyes searched the shadows.
There, in the corner—
She slumped.
A dark silhouette
With hair cascading over her face
Like a mourner's veil.
"No, no, no," he whispered,
Lurching toward her.
Blood had soaked through the bandages on her wrists,
A deep, accusing red
Against the pale cloth.
Elias gathered her into his arms,
His breath a jagged struggle.
"Celeste, please…" he murmured,
Sweeping her hair back
With trembling hands.
Her eyes flickered open—
Meeting his with a glimmer of awareness,
The stars of her soul barely visible
Through the gathering dark.
"I'm here," he choked out,
His voice fracturing like glass.
"I'm here."
Her lips parted,
But only a ghost of sound emerged.
He pressed her close,
Pouring what little strength he had
Into her trembling frame.
The air reeked of turpentine and blood,
A sharp, metallic hymn to life's fragility.
A cough seized him—
Doubling him over—
But he fought it back.
He had to get her help.
With staggering effort,
He lifted her,
His lungs screaming,
His chest a hollow drum.
Each step toward the door
Was a war against his failing body—
Yet love propelled him forward,
Unyielding.
And as he breached the threshold,
Dawn's first light broke through the gloom,
Bathing Celeste's ashen face
In a fleeting gold—
A fragile promise
Amid the wreckage.