Todos os capítulos de Brushstrokes of the unseen : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The storm broke, but the silence it left behind weighed heavier than thunder ever could. Three days passed. Sophia buried herself in numbers, contracts, and strategy decks. On the outside, her routine was flawless—meetings started on time, decisions were made with precision, and deals closed as though her mind was razor-sharp. But inside, she was drifting. She told herself it was fatigue, the natural consequence of overwork, the storm pressing down on her. But she knew better. Every time she crossed the lobby, her steps faltered. She caught herself listening—listening for the sound of a brush scraping against brick, for the low hum Alex sometimes made when he painted, for his laugh that came unexpectedly, like sunlight through clouds. But the lobby was quiet. The mural stretched across the wall, unfinished but already alive in a way no corporate installation had any right to be. The colours breathed. The shadows curved with intention. It was art that refused to be ignored,

The atrium of Bennett Tower was hushed in that hour before the city properly woke, when even the traffic outside seemed muted, like the world had paused to take a breath. Sophia entered as she always did—measured, purposeful, her heels striking the polished marble with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. She was early, earlier than most of her employees, but it had never bothered her. The building was her second skin, its silence a cloak she had grown accustomed to wearing. Today, though, the silence wasn’t empty. She noticed it almost immediately. The faint scrape of a brush on plaster, the rhythmic whisper of bristles against the wall. Her steps faltered as her eyes adjusted to the sight before her: Alex, standing before the unfinished mural, his back to her, completely absorbed in his work. The overhead lights were dim, but the atrium’s wide glass panels invited the pale morning sunlight inside. It fell across his figure in bands, catching the strands of his unkempt hair and t

The morning after she found herself in Alex’s studio, Sophia rose before dawn, as always. But everything felt different. Her routine was the same—coffee black, a quick shower, hair drawn into a flawless knot at the back of her head. Her assistants greeted her with polished schedules and urgent reminders. The boardroom waited with its endless demands. Yet beneath the steel of her routine, something soft trembled. Something dangerous. When she caught her reflection in the mirror that hung above her desk, she saw it: not the untouchable figure she had perfected over the years, but a woman whose eyes carried something raw. A secret that threatened to unravel her. The board meeting was brutal. Numbers bleeding red, investors pressing questions, whispers about her being distracted. Distracted. The word rang in her ears like an accusation. She cut through arguments with sharp logic, her voice calm, commanding. They nodded, scribbled notes, deferred to her brilliance as always. Yet e

The restaurant noise swallowed Sophia as she slipped back inside, but she didn’t hear a word of the conversation at her table. Her colleagues were laughing over a story someone told about a disastrous client meeting, but the sound was muffled, as though she were underwater. All she could hear was his voice. “You heard it, didn’t you?” It repeated in her mind, weaving into her thoughts until every sentence spoken around her sounded like him. She lifted her glass, nodding at a joke she hadn’t caught, and let the wine burn down her throat. Her assistant leaned close. “Everything alright?” Sophia blinked. “Of course.” Her voice was crisp, controlled. She adjusted her blazer, smoothed her hair, and forced her mouth into a practiced smile. She had spent years perfecting the art of composure. But tonight, it felt like wearing a mask that no longer fit. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alex standing there on the street, paint smudges on his jacket, his hand hovering in the air a

The studio smelled of turpentine and dust, of wood and paint left open too long. Canvases leaned against every wall, some vibrant, some abandoned halfway, others covered in rough strokes that looked more like confessions than art.Alex stood before the newest one—a massive canvas stretching nearly floor to ceiling. He hadn’t meant for it to be this big. But every time he picked up the brush, the strokes demanded more space, more air and more intensity.The painting was chaotic. Reds slashed through blues. Black bled into gold. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t even finished. It was raw.Like him.He stepped back, the paintbrush trembling in his hand. He told himself it was just another piece, just another attempt to pour out the restless ache inside him. But that wasn’t true.Every line was hers. Every colour was her silence.He could still see Sophia’s face in the glow of the gallery lights, controlled yet faltering. He could