Sophia stood beside me, paintbrush in hand. There was a yellow sun on my cheek, a blue butterfly across my forehead, and a crooked rainbow sliding over my nose.
She didn’t look guilty.
“He looked sad,” she said softly. “So I made him pretty.”
No one spoke.
I stared at her tiny hand, then at Maria’s frozen face, then at my own reflection in the dark window. I looked ridiculous. Painted. Imperfect. Human.
And for the first time in years, I did not feel like a man being watched, judged, managed, or used.
I felt seen.
My throat tightened so suddenly I could barely breathe. Maria stepped forward, panic flooding her eyes, and opened her mouth to apologize—but before she could say a word, Sophia dipped the brush back into the paint and reached toward my face again.
And this time, I did not stop her.
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