Three years. It had been three years since I last saw her, three years since I first laid eyes on Aaira. But this... this feeling—this need to complete the picture I had started so long ago—had never left me. It consumed me every day, every hour. The incomplete sketches of her, the shadows and half-finished strokes, had become a part of my routine. Every time I sat down to work, I found myself drawn to the one unfinished portrait that seemed to mock me with its incompleteness.
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