The arches were painted in thick dark gray brushstrokes, planted firmly on both banks without a single gap in the stonework.

“It’s beautiful, Toby,” I said, kneeling beside him on the carpet.

“The old drawing got torn,” he said, his voice quiet and direct.

“So I made this one stronger.

The middle pillars go all the way down into the deep rock.”

He carefully slid the thick paper in under the glass of the wooden frame, using the three fingers of his left hand to press the metal tabs down into the groove.

“Where do you want to put it?” I asked.