Harlan

The scent of oil paints and turpentine was a comforting balm to Harlan Elio, a stark contrast to the scorching heat that perpetually simmered beneath his skin. He stood before his easel, the late afternoon sun painting the canvas in hues of gold and amber, trying to capture the ephemeral beauty of the sunset over the California coast. Harlan sighed, the lines of his face softening. It had been centuries since he’d truly dedicated himself to art. Millennia, really. After all, what was time to an immortal? The constant observation of humanity’s fleeting lives had rendered him both cynical and weary. But here, in this humble, sun-drenched studio, surrounded by the vibrant chaos of color, he found a fragile peace. A peace that was shattered when a frantic knock reverberated through the small house. He reluctantly put down his brush, a spark of irritation flaring within him. Who dared interrupt his solitude?