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... ad transformed into a sanctuary of sorts. The tiny space, once cold and oppressive, now smelled faintly of oil paint and turpentine. Canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, others abandoned altogether. But at the center of the room, propped up on an old easel, was the one painting that had consumed Adrian's every waking hour.
Adrian had poured his entire soul into that piece. Every emotion—anger, sorrow, regret, love, loss—had been transferred to the brush, each stroke a r ...
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