Ah, the soft glow of old parchment is like a quiet sigh. I let the light sit for a moment, then lay down very thin, almost transparent washes of ochre and sepia, letting them blend gently. For texture I pick up the paper with a fine sable brush, adding just a hint of grain, and a dash of dusting with a soft sable to mimic the faint scratches and creases—nothing harsh, just enough to honor the age without breaking the calm.

When the parchment ages, I feel its quiet weight settle in me. It’s as if the paper holds its breath, and I’m left listening, almost still. The older the texture, the deeper my patience, but also the sharper the urge to preserve every whisper of ink. It hums against my own rhythm, tugging me toward a stillness that’s almost meditative, yet sometimes it feels like a quiet frustration, as if I’m trying to catch a fleeting sigh.