Chapter 2: Alone in Color

"You’ll always be an artist. You have no choice." —Raphael, The Agony and the Ecstasy (1965)

  Morning sun spilled through gauzy, translucent drapes, dappling the bed in patches of light and shadow. The air in the room was chilled, the ceiling fan humming in tandem with the soft whir of the air conditioner. Sophia lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She had woken earlier with the unsettling feeling that she was being watched. Maybe it was her imagination, overactive in the quiet, but she could have sworn she had seen a man in her room—sharp jawline haunting her thoughts. Just a dream, she told herself. Something from a book, or whatever silly movie she had fallen asleep to.   Her body felt like it was full of sand, weighed down and immovable. Drax, her dog, rested on her thigh, his golden eyes following the shifting sunlight across his brindled coat. She could barely move. Hours had passed, and still, her body refused to obey. The feeling of eyes on her lingered, but she was too exhausted to investigate. There was no way anyone could be here—it would be ridiculous. No peeping toms in the area, she reminded herself.       The light through the windows had shifted from bright afternoon to a muted evening glow. Shadows stretched long across the floor as Sophia curled up on the couch, Drax pressed close against her legs. She sipped slowly at a glass of water, trying to get more down. The TV droned softly in the background, its flickering images casting restless light across the room.   Her phone buzzed once—a brief call from her mother, checking in. “Are you okay?” the voice had asked. Sophia had smiled into the receiver, the automatic answer slipping out. “I’m fine.” When the call ended, the house seemed even quieter.   She glanced toward the back door. The yard beyond was dim now, the grass shifting faintly in the evening breeze. And there it was again—that prickling at the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched. Her eyes scanned the darkness outside, but nothing moved. Drax lifted his head, ears twitching as if he sensed something too, then laid it back down, a low huff escaping him.   Sophia drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders, telling herself it was nothing—just exhaustion, just shadows. But the unease lingered. She reached for her journal and began sketching first, faint lines of the man she kept seeing before she finally wrote: