Bob began to add a cabin. “This little fella needs a friend,” he said, dabbing in a second window. The paint was thick. Real. You could almost feel the weight of the brush in his hand.

When the credits rolled over the sound of Bob cleaning his brushes— tap, tap, swirl —Arthur didn't move. The room was silent again, save for the faint, digital ghosts of static.

And then he smiled, and the moment passed.