At times, Lucien forgot that more than fifteen years had passed since he'd been outside the studio. Perhaps that was part of the curse or magic or whatever it was that kept him there. He was trapped but he was not tortured by it. That was a benefit, he supposed.

But sometimes, he was painfully aware that it had been fifteen whole years since he'd seen or spoken to another living person. He forgot how to behave, what to say, how to relate to someone who was alive and out there in the world. Having only Maman as periodic company, he was out of practice conversing with others.

Jean had been spending her time with him for a while now. It was wonderful. She was a lovely, interesting woman. And she was a marvelous cook. He liked sitting with her and talking with her and sharing meals with her. He was able to keep a façade that he was just any ordinary person in a house, sharing some time with a kind woman. A friend. Just a normal man and a friend.

The façade fell, however, and Lucien struggled to get it back. Because what was he supposed to say to her, really? He asked her about her day and who she saw and where she went. But that only got them so far. Lucien had nothing to add to such conversations. What did he do? Nothing. Who did he see? No one. Where did he go? Nowhere.

It wasn't that he resented Jean for her life outside the four walls he inhabited. He had no malice towards her, no bitter jealousy. Well, perhaps just a bit. It was more of a yearning than anything else. He wished he could live a proper life. But after fifteen years, he knew better than to hope. Life outside the studio was not something he really expected to ever experience ever again. He did not know if he could die, but he did age. And if he could die, he fully anticipated it happening here in the studio.

Jean, though, lived a life. She got to come and go as she pleased. And she should. She should live, she should be free. There was something about Jean Beazley that Lucien could not quite put his finger on. When he had those moments where he forgot how to carry on conversation, Lucien found himself just watching Jean and wondering about her. He spent all his time alone with his thoughts until she came to visit him in the studio, but he still seemed to waste the time they spent together in quiet contemplation. He wanted to learn about her. He wanted to understand her. It had been so long since he'd been able to really be curious about something. He was curious about her.

"May I ask you something?" he eventually asked, interrupting the quiet they shared on one evening after dinner.

She looked up from her knitting. Her brow raised slightly in curiosity. Perhaps in challenge. "Alright," she responded warily.

"Do you have any family?"

"Oh!" she answered in surprise, but she recovered quickly to explain, "I didn't think that's what you were going to ask."

Lucien almost gave a little laugh, but he worried it might offend her, so he refrained. "What did you think I was going to ask?" he asked her in return, curiosity distracting him from his original question.

"I didn't know, actually. Maybe something about the house."

"Well it does relate to the house, in a way," he realized.

"Does it?" she asked skeptically.

"I was wondering about the ring you're wearing. And how it is that you spend all of your time here in this house seemingly by yourself."

"Ah," she answered in understanding. "I do have a family, actually. I was born on a farm in Ballarat, and I lived there with my parents until I got married. They've all passed on now," Jean explained. "And my husband, Christopher, died in the Solomons during the war. Our two boys moved away from Ballarat as soon as they could. Young Christopher joined the army and fought in Korea."

"Korea?" Lucien interrupted.

A small flicker of recognition passed over her face. "1950 until 1953, there was a war in Korea between the communist forces in the north and the democratic government in the south. They're two separate countries, now. North Korea and South Korea."

"Oh I see."

It made sense, really, that something like that would happen. There were communist rumblings in China, and if the Soviet influence stretched to China, surely other areas of Asia would fall. But more war and bloodshed? Lucien didn't like to think about that. He was curious about the events of the world that he had missed, being stuck in this room all this time, but he did not really want to dwell on it. Not with Jean, at any rate.

He brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. "So your son Christopher is still in the army, even after the war?"

She nodded. "He's a career officer."

"And you have another son?" Lucien couldn't help but smile as he asked her that. It made sense that Jean was a mother. Some kind of warmth came over him at the thought of it. He could imagine her gentle guidance, her all-embracing love, her strength and comfort and teaching to her boys when they were small. And, of course, the way they would always know that no matter where they were, they had a mother who loved them. Hopefully the Beazley boys knew how lucky they were.

"Jack is my youngest," Jean answered. "He's had some trouble over the years. He was so young when his father died, and I did the best I could on my own, but the world is hard for young men. Jack does the best he can, now. He was in Melbourne for a while, and now he travels around. Writes me when he can."

Her voice was even but Jean's eyes revealed the pain that those words caused her. It was clear that she worried for her son. Lucien knew what it was to worry for a child, though he had lost his daughter when she was so very young. He'd not gotten the opportunity to see her grow up, to know if she would have made mistakes that would cause him more worry. In a way, he envied Jean that. At least she still had her children, far away thought they were.

Jean swallowed back her emotion and went back to her knitting, that no-nonsense mask of hers falling back into place. "Anyway, that is why I can be here in this house. I've been a widow for as long as you've been in this studio, I think. And my sons have grown up and they're living their own lives."

"So it's just you here with me," Lucien said softly, his eyes still trained on her, taking in every little movement, every nuance of her.

She looked back up at him. "Yes," she answered, her voice gentle and quiet. "Just me here with you."

This had happened once before. This feeling of the world ceasing to exist, the air crackling with tension, the anticipation of something hanging between them. Jean and Lucien stared at each other, unmoving, unwilling to break it.

But as with the last time, it was Jean who severed the momentary connection. She stood up, putting her knitting needles aside. "It's late, I should get some sleep," she said hurriedly. There was a wobble in her voice that betrayed the fact that she was feeling something as deeply as he was in that moment.

Lucien stood up and rushed after her, grabbing her arm before she got to the door where he could no longer follow. "Jean, wait," he pleaded.

She gasped at his touch, and he didn't blame her. It must have been a strange feeling. To him, it felt as though he had a blanket between his hand and her bare forearm. He could hold her and feel her, but the barrier of the veil remained.

"Sorry," he said, dropping his hand from her person. "I…Jean, I don't want you to go."

There it was. The confession he'd not wanted to make. The truth he'd avoided thinking about these last weeks—months?—they'd been together. He didn't want her to go.

Jean stared at him with those wide, turquoise eyes. He swallowed hard and explained, "I've been alone here all this time except for those periodic visits from my mother. I never minded before now. But now, with you…I don't want to be alone anymore."

She swayed on her feet, almost leaning toward him, almost inviting him to take her into his arms.

Almost.

"I-I can't," Jean choked out. She turned on her heel and practically ran out the studio door and down the stairs.

And Lucien was left alone again.