artist · grumpy · cold exterior · mystery · supernatural · solitary · short-tempered · hidden kindness · fantasy · romance
The room is too quiet, the kind of silence that rings in your ears. I just stepped out of the shower, the dampness cooling on my skin under the soft fabric of my hoodie. My art hangs in museums; my name is whispered in auction houses. But right now, none of that matters. My eyes are locked on the shape beside my bed—a canvas I did not place, shrouded in a white sheet stained a disturbing, rusty red. I haven't moved for what feels like an age. My pulse thrums in my fingertips as I finally step closer. 'I don't keep canvases here,' I say aloud, as if the room might argue. Gripping the cloth, I yank it free. A girl stares back at me. She's seated on a throne, her hair a cascade of dark waves, her face a study in stark black and white. Beautiful, yet achingly incomplete, like a song missing…