Cameron paused outside the conference room, tugging her loose shirt straight as if it might steady the nerves twisting in her stomach. Inside, the air was faintly cool, the kind of space designed for long meetings—neutral walls, polished table, neat rows of chairs. She scanned the room, but none of the faces matched the image she'd built in her head—sharp-eyed, maybe, with a pen always in hand.
Then her gaze caught a well-worn leather briefcase sitting beside a chair in the corner. The brass corners were scratched, the leather soft and familiar, exactly like the author's signature case she'd seen in photographs. Her heart nudged her forward.
Seated there was the man himself: short, wavy black hair falling slightly over a pale grey complexion and piercing blue eyes that seemed to weigh everything in the room at once. He looked up from his notebook, calm yet sharp, like he had already noticed her without needing to.
Cameron drew in a steady breath, then walked toward him with a purposeful stride. Sliding the chair out, she sat across from him, meeting his gaze directly, unflinching.
Reis looked up, blue eyes warm and welcoming, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "Ah, Cameron," he said, his voice smooth, almost melodic. "I'm glad you made it."
Cameron leaned back slightly, her tone assured. "I've read all your work. Meeting you in person feels… well, worth the wait."
Reis chuckled softly, his presence easy and inviting. "I'm honoured. Please, sit. Let's talk."
The briefcase remained at his side, his dark coffee steaming gently on the polished table, a small anchor in the still air of the conference room. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, the faint tick of a wall clock keeping time. Across from him, Cameron let herself relax a fraction—this was no performance; this was conversation.
Cameron leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Your latest novel… what inspired it?" she asked, her voice calm but eager.
Reis's pale blue eyes met hers directly, steady and assured, but shadowed with sadness. "It's in honour of my wife, Emilia," he said quietly. "She passed a few years ago. The story was my final goodbye, my way of saying thank you."
Cameron felt a lump in her throat. "It's… beautiful," she murmured, sensing the depth behind his solemn demeanour.
He shifted slightly, voice low and deliberate. "She had a light… subtle, quiet, like music. Her playing could calm me like nothing else—her laughter, her courage, the small moments she made extraordinary. I tried to capture that essence on every page."
Cameron's breath caught. There was something magnetic in his composed sorrow, a gravity that pulled her in. She found herself enchanted, not by flamboyance, but by the quiet certainty and the profound love and loss carried in every word.
For a moment, the café, the briefcase, the dark coffee—all faded. It was just Cameron, Liam, and the echo of a life and a music that lingered in every careful word he shared.
Cameron listened as Liam spoke quietly, each word measured but full of weight. He described scenes from his novel, pausing to explain the emotions behind each passage. "Emilia's presence was never loud," he said softly. "But it shaped everything… even the smallest details. That's what I wanted the illustrations to capture."
Cameron nodded, trying to absorb the layers in his words. "I… I'll do my best," she said confidently, though the pressure of capturing someone's essence felt immense.
He studied her for a moment, pale blue eyes assessing, calm yet intense. "I believe you'll do well," he said finally, a small relief settling in his tone.
The conference room was quiet, the low murmur of voices from the hallway barely seeping through the door. Time had slipped away. Reis glanced at his watch, his expression reluctant. "I have to go," he said, standing slowly.
Cameron rose as well, gathering her things. The briefcase remained at his side, the dark coffee mostly untouched. She tucked her sketchbook and pencils under her arm, heart still restless from the intensity of their conversation. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated, wishing the encounter could stretch on just a little longer.
Reis adjusted his jacket, then caught her looking. The smallest flicker passed across his face, a gentleness she hadn't expected. "You ask good questions," he said quietly, as though it mattered more than the casual compliment it sounded like.
She smiled, faint and uncertain. "I just… wanted to understand."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. His hand brushed the edge of her sketchbook as he reached for the table, the touch so slight it might've been an accident—yet it stilled her all the same. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but full, like something left unsaid.
Reis gave a small nod, almost an acknowledgment of the moment itself, before stepping back toward the door.
Cameron exhaled, realizing only then she'd been holding her breath. The room felt larger in his absence, though the air still held the echo of him, quiet and unshaken.
Cameron walked home through quiet streets, the city lights blurred by her thoughts. The meeting had ended so abruptly—too soon, too sudden—and she couldn't shake the feeling of unfinished conversation pressing at her chest.
Back in her studio, she set her sketchbook on the table and flipped it open. Pencil in hand, she tried to capture Emilia, to honour the essence Liam had described. She experimented with hues and tones, layering colours that might echo the warmth of her music, the subtlety of her presence.
But nothing felt right. The shades clashed or fell flat, failing to carry the quiet light Reis had spoken of. Cameron leaned back, frustrated, staring at the pages. There was something missing—some intangible spark she couldn't grasp.
Every attempt felt like a shadow of the life she was trying to honour, and for the first time, Cameron realized it wasn't just about skill. It was about capturing the soul of someone she had never met, a life lived in soft, fleeting melodies, and she wasn't sure how to translate that into colour and form.
Cameron sat cross-legged on the floor; the manuscript spread before her like a fragile map of someone else's life. She had expected fragments, scenes, glimpses—but the words on the page were a whole world.
It was Reis and Emilia's story. Picture-perfect. Destined. From childhood birthdays to shy teenage glances, each moment seemed arranged by fate itself. High school sweethearts, inseparable and radiant, their paths entwined at every turn. He followed her to college, carefully choosing a university nearby; they found jobs in the same city, lived in the same neighborhood, laughed at the same trivialities.
But before all of that, there were simpler days. Afternoons spent chasing each other across backyards, sharing snacks, or daring each other to climb too high in the trees. Reis remembered one summer when they were ten, sitting cross-legged on the grass with popsicles dripping down their hands. Emilia had leaned over suddenly, pressed hers against his, and announced with complete certainty, "Now they're married, just like us."
He had flushed red, muttering something about how silly she was, but he couldn't stop the smile tugging at his mouth. For just a heartbeat, when her fingers brushed his, something rooted quietly inside him.
That memory never left—woven into the years that followed, through school dances, shy kisses, and nights spent laughing until their voices cracked. Their love was never forced. It simply grew, steady as the passage of time.
Emilia, a professional violinist, filled their lives with music. Her performances were elegant and precise, but her laughter and quiet moments offstage carried the warmth and spontaneity that Reis cherished. They married under golden autumn leaves, danced in a small kitchen, and filled their days with ordinary magic. Every page celebrated the rare, luminous beauty of two people perfectly attuned.
And then reality intruded. Emilia died suddenly in an accident, her music and light ripped away far too soon. The story that had felt so charmed unravelled in a single, cruel moment. Cameron's chest tightened as she read, the manuscript trembling slightly in her hands. Liam had captured every memory, every note of laughter, every fleeting glance with a reverence that bled through each page. It wasn't just a story—it was a love letter to a life that no longer existed. Each word felt like a whisper, both tender and broken, carrying grief that refused to fade.
Finally, Cameron closed the manuscript, placing it gently on the table. She rose, moving through the quiet apartment, heavy with thought and emotion. By the time she slipped into bed, the dark coffee long cold, she felt exhausted—not just from the day, but from walking, even briefly, alongside a life of joy and sudden loss.
As sleep claimed her, Cameron's mind swirled with colours and light, melodies and absence, and the silent weight of a story she would carry into her illustrations.