Lian’s hands trembled as she dipped the brush into the ink. The delicate fibers of the silk stretched under her fingertips, responding to her touch like a living thing. She had spent decades perfecting her craft, painting portraits of the noble and the common alike, capturing the essence of those who sat before her. But this one, this portrait of Mei, was unlike any she had ever created.

Mei, her lover. The woman who had walked into Lian's life like a breeze, soft and unexpected, yet entirely unforgettable. Their love was an unspoken bond, a delicate thread that wove through the very fabric of their days. Yet, as Lian’s hands grew slower and her sight began to blur, she feared that the thread would unravel before she could capture Mei’s face for eternity.

The first time her vision began to falter, it had been so slight she thought it was just fatigue. But over time, the blurring increased. Colors bled into one another, shapes became hazy, and soon, there were days when Lian could not even make out the fine details of her own work.

Mei had noticed, of course. She would sit beside Lian, whispering words of comfort, her voice like the warm glow of the sun. “Don’t worry,” Mei would say, brushing a lock of hair from Lian’s face. “Your hands are your eyes. You have always seen more than most with them.”

Lian had believed her. She had always seen more with her hands—the way silk felt beneath her fingertips, how a piece of cloth could reveal the soul of a person. But with each passing day, her grip weakened, and the world around her faded into shadows.

Yet, Lian was determined to finish the portrait. She couldn’t allow her sight to betray her, not when her love, Mei, was so close.

One morning, as the first rays of sunlight slanted across the room, Lian sat before the canvas, the empty portrait of Mei waiting to be filled. Her brush trembled as she brought it to the silk, the edge of Mei’s chin beginning to take form.

Her hands remembered.

The curve of Mei’s cheek, the delicate arch of her brow, the way her lips quivered when she smiled—Lian’s hands could recall it all. She painted not with her eyes but with the language of touch, each stroke guided by muscle memory, each movement a prayer to the woman who had become the light of her world.

Days blurred into weeks, and Mei remained by her side, silent and watchful. The painting grew, slowly but surely. The eyes of Mei began to form, so perfectly rendered that it seemed as though the portrait might come alive. Lian could no longer see the details with clarity, but she could feel them. She traced the contours of Mei’s face with her fingers, her hands remembering each small detail that had once been so clear to her sight.

One evening, as the night fell and the moon rose, Lian finished the final stroke—the last line of Mei’s lips. She sat back, her breath shallow, her heart racing. For the first time in weeks, she looked at the portrait, her blurry eyes searching the silk.

“Mei,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Do you see?”

Mei leaned over, her warm breath a soft whisper on Lian’s ear. “I see,” she replied, her fingers brushing Lian’s cheek. “You’ve captured me perfectly. More than perfectly. You’ve captured us.”

Lian smiled, though she couldn’t see the smile reflected in the silk. She didn’t need to. Mei’s voice, the softness of her touch, the warmth of her presence—it was enough.

The world may have been fading from Lian’s sight, but in the strokes of her hands, in the memory of Mei’s face, the love they shared would never fade. It would remain, immortal, on the silk she had painted with both her eyes and her heart.

And though her sight grew dimmer with each passing day, Lian knew that the masterpiece she had created would outlast the blindness that now claimed her. Because some loves, like the most beautiful works of art, could never truly be lost.