Chapter 298: Velvet and Paint
The door felt weightier than I recalled, or perhaps I simply wasn’t prepared to step through it. I remained for a brief moment, knuckles still heated from the rap, the gentle buzz of the apartment enveloping me. Camille’s door was shut, silent, yet I sensed the pressure behind it—like a little universe locked away. I inhaled, extended my hand, and slowly pushed it open.
The interior space was gloomier, a refuge created from the intense glare of the remainder of the apartment. Darkness gathered in the corners among fabric rolls and spools of thread. The air had a subtle scent of solvents, lacquer, and a persistent sweetness from the lavender sachets that Camille always stored away. I walked softly, mindful not to disrupt the neat disorder on her work table: drawings attached like treasured awards, threads sorted by hue and size, fragile tools laid out as though in the midst of crafting.
After that, I spotted her.
Camille sat on her preferred velvet couch—the one that appeared incredibly plush, yielding a bit under her weight. Her sleeves were pushed up, forearms covered with flecks of pink powder. She was removing persistent bits of dried paint from the surface of the coat and the mask lying on her lap. Her forehead creased, lips clenched, eyes darting between the material, the instrument, and the mask as though wishing for the pink powder to disappear..à
I caught the exhaustion behind her gaze, the quiet irritation that wasn’t quite anger. More like frustration with the whole situation, with me. But also, beneath it all, that stubborn pride that always shone through her work. She hated damage because she poured herself into these pieces. Each stitch, each layer was a measure of her soul. And now, it was all marred.
I swallowed hard, moving closer.
The coat she cradled was a masterpiece. I knew that more than anyone. The way the velvet caught light and shadow, the subtle embossing along the collar, the fluidity of the seams that made it look both regal and alive. And the mask—an intricate dance of curves and edges, painted and molded to fit her vision and how she captured the essence of Dusk was revolutionary. This wasn’t just clothing or protection; it was art made real.
And here I was, a walking disaster, who had came back in dry pink powder that looked like some careless graffiti sprayed over her hours of labor. The paint can incident wasn’t just a minor spill—it was a full-on smear of negligence. Dry paint, stubborn and abrasive, stuck to the velvet folds and the mask’s fragile surface.
Camille’s job title drained her too, more than anything I’ve seen before, and she’d spent hours breathing life into that coat and mask. I had ruined it in less than a week. No wonder she looked so tired.