The Painter’s brush whispered across the pane of glass, the only sound in the darkness. The only light in the room was a dim, flickering bulb located right above him and his work. Gently, carefully, he drew another stroke across the smooth material, followed by another, then another. Each stroke as perfect as the last, each brush blending in perfectly with the color around it. It had to be perfect, for if it wasn’t then the magic it held would be lost.