first lesson

The silence in the workshop after yesterday's conversation was different. It wasn't empty. It was filled, like the air after a thunderstorm, purified and tinged with new, unspoken words. Gray sat on an old leather stool and ran his fingers over the rough surface of the workbench, reading its history through the scratches, cracks, and dried varnish. To his father, it was just a table. To him, it was a map of the past.

Hugh was busy with the pigment shelves. His usual movements—sharp, precise, absorbed—were somehow… uncertain today. He kept glancing at his son, as if seeing him anew.

“Gray,” he said at last, his voice a little louder than it needed to be. “Let’s—let’s do an experiment.”

Gray looked up. The word “experiment” usually smelled of ozone and hot metal. Today it smelled of something new.

"Which one?"

Hugh came over, holding a long silk scarf in his hands, a deep, dark shade that was simply a deep, velvety gray to Gray.

"I want to understand," Hugh said simply."To understand how you see."

He tied the scarf around his eyes, making sure there wasn't a single gap of light.

"Lead me," he said, holding out his hand.

Gray paused for a moment. Then he carefully took his father's hand. The skin on his palm was rough from chemicals and paint.

"Where should we go?" Gray asked.

"Through the room." Describe her to me. As you see it.

Gray led his father to the first point of interest, a large oak cabinet.

"There's a closet here," he began, feeling a little silly. "It's... heavy."

"All the cabinets are heavy," Hugh smiled from under his blindfold.

"No,— Gray said. "It's not just heavy. It looks heavy. His wood is dark and dense, with deep veins, like compressed muscles. He's not just standing there, he's established himself here.

Hugh paused, his eyebrows raised slightly under the bandage.

"Go on."

"There's dust on top of it. Not just gray dust. It is light and fluffy, almost weightless".And here," Gray ran his finger along the edge of the shelf, "the dust is coarse and granular, probably got here when you were grinding something.

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He led his father further to the window.

— And this is glass. It's not just transparent. It's... fragile. Its surface is a solid ripple, only very smooth. And there are prints on it. Here it is— big, smeared, it's yours. And here is a small one, from my little finger.

Hugh took an uncertain step forward and raised his hand, trying to find by touch what his son had seen. His fingers brushed against the cold glass.

—I... I've never noticed any prints,— he confessed softly.

They are— Gray said simply.

They went around the whole workshop like that. Gray was describing the world. Not as a set of objects, but as a landscape of textures, densities, light gradients, and shadows. He talked about a metal rack that was "cold and sharp-looking," a cloth that was "wet and tired," and a puddle of spilled varnish that was "mirror-smooth but deceptive, because underneath it was a rough floor."

Hugh remained silent. His hand in his son's gradually relaxed. He wasn't trying to lead, he was just listening. And he was breathing. And it seemed that for the first time he really heard the silence of his own workshop — the creaking of floorboards, the distant hum of the city, his own heartbeat.

Then they changed.

Hugh took off his blindfold, his eyes watering from the unaccustomed darkness. He looked at Gray, and there was something new in his gaze-not pity, but respect. And curiosity.

"Now it's my turn," he said. "I'll try... I'll try to describe the color to you."

He led Gray to a table where a bright scarlet pigment shimmered in a glass flask.

—That's... that's red," Hugh began, and his voice became uncertain again. He searched for words in a world where there were no visual metaphors. "He's... hot." Like a fire that's about to burn. It's as loud as a scream. It smells like... iron and spices. If it had a taste, it would be sweet, but in a way that made your jaw ache.

Gray looked at the flask. To him, it was just a glowing, light gray powder. But his father's words filled him with new feelings. He nodded.

—And this is blue,— Hugh moved on to another flask. —He's... the opposite." It's deep and quiet, like a pool in a river. He smells of night air and wet stone. It's cold to the touch. Like a whisper.

He described one color after another, and gradually the room was filled not with colors, but with sensations. Colors came to life for Gray as a symphony of smells, temperatures, sounds, and emotions. It wasn't vision. It was more than that.

Suddenly Gray went over to his drawing, the pencil sketch of the garden. He took it and showed it to his father.

"You see? He pointed to the shadow under the tree. "It's not just a dark spot. It's a thick, moist, cool place. And this one," he ran his finger along the crown, —is rough, alive, and rustling. And this..." he pointed to a barely marked path, "is smooth and well—trodden.

Hugh was looking at the drawing. And for the first time, he did not see the absence of color. He saw the density. He saw life conveyed through the prism of a different perception.It was no less complex, no less beautiful, than the whole palette of his pigments.

“Yes,” he whispered, and his voice broke. “I see. It’s… beautiful, Gray.”

He didn’t hug his son. He just put his hand on his shoulder, and the touch was as clear and sharp as everything Gray had described. There was no pity in it. There was only acceptance.

The first lesson was over. The teacher and the student switched places. And both realized that they had just begun to learn the basics of a completely new language — the language of the world, as it really was.