Painter’s annotation: There’s a rhythm to a studio that only appears when you stop listening for it. Some sounds are expected: brushes tapping the rim of a jar, canvas shifting on its stretcher, my own breath. But sometimes there’s another rhythm—not made by me. It enters the room like a second hand on a watch I didn’t know I was wearing.

The new peg had been there for over a week.

It sat just above the one Élian preferred. Same wood, same polish. I’d drilled and set it one early evening without ceremony. I didn’t even look at it the next morning. It was just there, like a pause added to a sentence.

He ignored it.

Each time he visited, he landed where he always had—his peg. The original one. Not a glance upward.

Until the day he didn’t.

That morning, he arrived early, as usual, but didn’t head to the peg. He landed instead on the sill—lower than usual, eye-level with the lemons. A strange choice. The sky behind him was overcast and yellowing with storm light.

He sat there for a long time. I didn’t move.

I was working on another layer of the background—subtle warm gray with barely a brush of green. Not quite air. Not quite ground. A space for him to be in, not on. The shape was there, but the tone wasn’t. The whole thing had become too polite.

Then he moved.

Not to the lower peg. Not to the palette.

He flew to the new peg. The one beside his own. The one that hadn’t been claimed.

He landed lightly, wings tight to his side, chest forward. It was a different posture—not relaxed, not hesitant either. Like someone standing at the doorway to a room they used to know.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked to his right—where the old peg sat, empty.

Then he looked left.

There was space. He waited.

I froze.

There was no sound but the ticking of the warm water pot cooling on the side table.

Then I saw her.

A small movement from behind the window’s edge. Subtle, precise.

A second finch.

Female.

Gray-yellow across the chest, dusky wings, dark crown. She hovered for a breath, then landed without fuss. Her body barely shifted the curtain.

She did not approach. She perched.

She had not been here before. At least not while I was looking.

She stayed outside the window frame, just far enough to remain uncounted.

But Élian saw her.

He didn’t call. He turned slightly, just enough for his shoulder to be seen in profile.

And then he remained still.

I did not move. I did not speak.

Eventually, she dipped her head—not in submission, not in retreat—and left the frame. I didn’t hear her go.

Élian remained on the new peg for another five minutes. I counted them. Each minute a choice not to return to the old one.

Then, without sound, he flew down to the sill again. Walked—walked—to the lower peg.

His peg.

Settled.

I reached for the sketchpad, my hand slower than usual. I didn’t draw. Not yet. I sat.

And I waited, with him, in that space between recognition and invitation.

I don’t think she’ll come soon.

But I left a third peg out anyway.