Todd had always believed some things were meant to stay untouched—brushes never dipped, spines never cracked, words never spoken. His days were quiet, tucked between dog-eared pages and fading sunlight through bookstore windows. Nights were quieter still, filled with the scent of turpentine and the sound of his own breath as he painted things he never dared to feel. Women had come and gone—some curious, some kind—but none had lingered long enough to become more than memory. Love, he decided, was a language he never quite learned to speak out loud.