The next morning dawned pale and cold, the kind of light that struggled to break through thick winter clouds. Greywick was unusually still — as if the town itself sensed something shifting in the quiet corners where fate liked to hide its handiwork.
Aria found herself walking toward the painter's studio without truly deciding to go. Her feet simply knew the way. Every step felt like retracing something long forgotten.
When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.
Kaelan stood there — brush in hand, smudges of charcoal on his wrists, eyes bright with something between fear and wonder.
I wasn't sure you would come, he said quietly.
Aria swallowed gently.I wasn't sure either.
He stepped aside, and she entered.
The room was transformed. The easel had been positioned in the center, chairs moved aside, and the cloth-draped portrait pushed carefully into a corner. Beside the easel sat an empty canvas — fresh, untouched, waiting.
Kaelan motioned toward a simple wooden stool.If you don't mind, he said, I would like to paint you. Properly. Not from dreams.
Something fluttered in her chest.
Why me? Aria asked, sitting slowly.
Kaelan hesitated.I don't know, he said. And yet I feel as though I've been searching for you my entire life.
The words settled between them like falling snow — silent, heavy, inevitable.
He began to paint.
At first, they spoke little. The scrape of bristles against canvas filled the room, rhythmic, soothing. Aria held her pose, though her heart raced with every glance he stole at her.
But after some time, he paused.
Aria, he said softly, does it ever happen to you… that when you look at certain places or objects, they feel familiar in a way they shouldn't?
She blinked.Yes. Yes, it did.
But she had never dared speak of it.
Sometimes, she admitted. A feeling, a… memory that isn't mine.
Kaelan exhaled shakily.I dream of fields I've never walked. A courtyard with lanterns. A girl with golden hair crying beside me as I—He stopped, jaw tightening.As I die.
Aria's breath hitched, her entire body trembling.
He looked at her suddenly.I shouldn't have said that.
No, she whispered. You should have.
Silence pulsed.
Kaelan set his brush down and stepped closer — slowly, as if gravity itself pulled him toward her.
Being near you, he murmured, is like remembering a song I used to love. One I haven't heard in centuries."
The next morning dawned pale and cold, the kind of light that struggled to break through thick winter clouds. Greywick was unusually still — as if the town itself sensed something shifting in the quiet corners where fate liked to hide its handiwork.
Aria found herself walking toward the painter's studio without truly deciding to go. Her feet simply knew the way. Every step felt like retracing something long forgotten.
When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.
Kaelan stood there — brush in hand, smudges of charcoal on his wrists, eyes bright with something between fear and wonder.
I wasn't sure you would come, he said quietly.
Aria swallowed gently.
I wasn't sure either.
He stepped aside, and she entered.
The room was transformed. The easel had been positioned in the center, chairs moved aside, and the cloth-draped portrait pushed carefully into a corner. Beside the easel sat an empty canvas — fresh, untouched, waiting.
Kaelan motioned toward a simple wooden stool.
If you don't mind, he said, I would like to paint you. Properly. Not from dreams.
Something fluttered in her chest.
Why me? Aria asked, sitting slowly.
Kaelan hesitated.
I don't know, he said. And yet I feel as though I've been searching for you my entire life.
The words settled between them like falling snow — silent, heavy, inevitable.
He began to paint.
At first, they spoke little. The scrape of bristles against canvas filled the room, rhythmic, soothing. Aria held her pose, though her heart raced with every glance he stole at her.
But after some time, he paused.
Aria, he said softly, does it ever happen to you… that when you look at certain places or objects, they feel familiar in a way they shouldn't?
She blinked.
Yes. Yes, it did.
But she had never dared speak of it.
Sometimes, she admitted. A feeling, a… memory that isn't mine.
Kaelan exhaled shakily.
I dream of fields I've never walked. A courtyard with lanterns. A girl with golden hair crying beside me as I—
He stopped, jaw tightening.
As I die.
Aria's breath hitched, her entire body trembling.
He looked at her suddenly.
I shouldn't have said that.
No, she whispered. You should have.
Silence pulsed.
Kaelan set his brush down and stepped closer — slowly, as if gravity itself pulled him toward her.
Being near you, he murmured, is like remembering a song I used to love. One I haven't heard in centuries.
Aria's eyes softened.
I feel it too.
He reached for her hand — hesitating inches away, unsure whether to cross the line.
She bridged the distance.
Their fingers touched.
A shock shot through both of them — not painful, but familiar, as if their palms had known each other across lifetimes.
Kaelan inhaled sharply.
I don't understand any of this.
Nor do I, Aria whispered. But it feels… right.
There was a pause.
And then the church bells began to ring violently — an alarm.
Kaelan's expression darkened.
The plague, he said. Another house has fallen.
Aria stood quickly.
My father will be expecting me. We must prepare remedies.
Kaelan caught her wrist—not holding her back, only turning her toward him.
Come back, he said, voice low. Please.
Aria nodded, trying not to let fear choke her.
I will.
He watched her leave, paint still clinging to his hands.
Outside, the bells tolled again.
Inside, the portrait on the easel waited — half finished, full of a destiny neither of them could escape.