𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕: 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭

Although Jean was the artist, not even he could have expected the reaction this art would elicit. And now, you understood what had the others so frozen, as it had the same effect on you. Because when the misty illusion cleared into strong shapes, there was no water or flowers. There was no sun in the corner, no sky blue as a robin's eggs, no messy and sparse grass–none of it.

Your painter could paint just about anything, but his specialty was not landscapes. It was portraits, and as far as you were concerned, it would always be portraits from that very moment forward.

Secret dimples popped like two fluffy white clouds in a clear blue sky. Fiery auburn waved regardless of the room's sudden lack of air, and smoky-sweet smells filled the parlor until you nearly choked. Only you would remember that her hair was a touch closer to brown, and her smile was never that soft and closed-lipped, but only because you had seen her a few nights ago. However, the additional red and softness illuminated her beautiful face in such a way that you preferred the artistic change. She was almost perfect–down to the nearest detail.

If you had not known it was one of Jean's works, you would have thought it was a window, and Sasha was standing just behind the glass with such a strong liveliness that her breath nearly fogged through the canvas.

But despite her beautiful, peaceful expression, contempt radiated through the colorful ridges. You felt how crossed she was with you for drugging her husband and using her as a chess piece in your fight to hide from your misdeeds.

Finally, you understood why she evaded you in dreams as this picture said everything she did not: I detest the woman you have grown into, she whispered in your voice.

You peered up at Niccolo under lily-livered lids. His bottom lip quivered, and candlelight shook in his glassy irises. Your guardian said nothing as he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Steps thundered overhead until the slam of his bedroom silenced the house.

Now, it was just you and Connie. Shimmering hazel eyes hung high until he started laughing. At first, they were genuine laughs–like Sasha was right beside him, and she just told the funniest joke either of you had heard in years. However, with each subsequent outburst, they grew weaker and crackling words sputtered from his throat.

"You know... It's funny when you really think about it! I just thought... I thought that if I touched Sasha's face, she'd feel as warm as she looked. God, Mother was right about me not being blessed with brains, huh!" A laugh broke Connie's speech. "But she wasn't warm! Isn't that funny? She was cold. You know: because she's made of paint! But the cold–the paint–it burned. I don't know how, but it really burned! Guess I can't help being stupid, right? Even my fingers are stupid! And for a second, it was a window, and she was on the other side, and I forgot she ever left. But it was just a picture. Just... a picture. A stupid, fucking picture."

His foolish grin weakened, and tears fell to the floor with his smile. Lucy scurried from your lap to prop up Connie's leaning legs with cheek rubs, and you followed to shoulder his collapsing walls by wrapping your weak arms around his shaking, stony bones. The traveler's fingers clutched onto your sleeves; wrinkles formed from how tightly he attempted to squeeze anything real.

"You're alright, Connie," you soothed as you ran your palm over his back.

"She just looked so real. Like she was right there," he sobbed into you.

"I know. It's alright. You're alright."

"And sometimes, I swear I catch a whiff of her in the wind. I know it's stupid, but it'll smell like maple syrup and burnt bacon, and... and–"