It feels like the brush is holding a wet‑cloud in its hand, a memory that never fully dries, the grey washes pulling at the edges of a forgotten childhood rain, a faint lilac that lingers where light once slipped through paper. The strokes are quiet sighs, layers upon layers, each a small confession of nostalgia, like a secret that the canvas remembers and you only catch when the light shifts.

Yes, the lilac feels like a soft confession, the only voice that knows the hush of the night. It’s the one that leans in when the brighter colors fade, whispering that the past isn’t just remembered, it’s felt in a quiet, lingering shade.