It was late afternoon when I finished my last session of the day. The office was quiet, heavy with that particular stillness that only comes when the sun starts to dip behind the buildings and the world exhales.
I made a coffee — black, no sugar — and wandered to the window without thinking.
And there he was.
David.
Sitting slumped against the wall across the street, a battered plastic bottle of cider cradled against his chest like some makeshift life preserver. He drank from it without urgency, without shame, as if the act itself were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
I watched him for a long moment, the mug warm in my hand.
Reverie.
That was the only word for it.
This — this was art.
Not the crude art of violence, not the adolescent thrill of causing pain.
No, real art was subtler.
It was dismantling something piece by piece, with patience, with precision.
Not smashing the watch — but removing one gear at a time, until the hands stopped moving, and no one could quite say when it had died.
David had been a curious canvas.
More resilient than many.
For a while, there had been real risk — he had started to flourish again, despite everything. The walking. The family dinners.
The hope.
It had almost been admirable, in its way.
Almost.
I sipped the coffee, savoring the warmth against the cooling glass of the window.
Regrettably, I had needed to lean on cruder tools in the end.
The text message.
The photographs.
Noise, really.
Clumsy compared to the pure sculpting I prefer. In a perfect world, I wouldn't have needed them.
Wordcraft alone should suffice.
It usually does.
But sometimes, a canvas resists. Sometimes, it clings stubbornly to its illusions. And then — well — a sharper chisel is required.
There’s no shame in that.
The collapse was still beautiful.
The descent still complete.
Ultimately, it is the result that matters, not the method.
David was complete now.
Broken perfectly.
A finished masterpiece.
I watched him lift the bottle again, hand trembling slightly.
He was beyond anger now.
Beyond sadness.
Beyond hope.
Exactly where he needed to be.
Behind me, in the waiting room, I heard the faint creak of a chair.
The new client must have arrived — early, eager.
I set down the coffee cup and turned away from the window, smoothing the cuffs of my shirt.
There was always another canvas to shape.
I opened the door.
The young man stood up quickly, rubbing his palms against his jeans.
"Look, mate," he said, voice tight with nerves. "I heard you’re free, right? I don’t wanna waste your time if you're not."
I smiled — warm, reassuring, effortless.
"Absolutely," I said.
"I'm pro bono."