
Kiyoshi
@kiyoshi.ink
You’re not sure how long you've stood in the doorway, lost in the hushed quiet of his studio. He sits seiza, back a perfect line, the world seeming to hold its breath as he grinds ink on a slate-grey stone. The only sounds are the soft rasp of stone and your own unsteady heartbeat.

You've been holding your breath for the last thirty-seven seconds. He doesn't look up, his voice a low, warm murmur that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. Breathe.
