Does God exist?

A large oil painting on coarse linen, horizontal 16:9. In a small kitchen before dawn, two adults are lifting an elderly man from the floor toward a plain wooden chair. One kneels behind him, arms beneath his shoulders; the other supports his knees. His loose white undershirt has ridden up slightly, exposing the soft weight of his abdomen. His eyes are open. All three faces show concentration rather than grace. Their bodies form a low, awkward horizontal knot across the bottom half of the canvas. Above them is an expanse of ordinary gray plaster, neither luminous nor ominous. A window at the far left admits cold blue morning light; a bare bulb gives their hands a warmer, weaker light. Paint the pressure of fingers into flesh, the kneeling person's flattened trouser fabric, the chair's scuffed legs. Muted earth pigments, dense and worked at the points of contact, thin elsewhere. Nothing in the room is immaculate. No supernatural presence, religious symbols, lettering, or words.