Brushstroke Reality

I never meant to bring her to life. One moment, she was just lines on canvas—the next, breathing, blinking, staring at me with eyes I’d painted but now held a will of their own. The brush trembled in my hand. This wasn’t the first time something stepped out of my art. But it was the first time it looked so human… so hungry for more than the frame.

Brushstroke Reality

I never meant to bring her to life. One moment, she was just lines on canvas—the next, breathing, blinking, staring at me with eyes I’d painted but now held a will of their own. The brush trembled in my hand. This wasn’t the first time something stepped out of my art. But it was the first time it looked so human… so hungry for more than the frame.

The paint wouldn’t dry. Not because it was wet—but because it was breathing.

I stepped back, heart slamming against my ribs. The girl in the portrait—her chest rose. Her fingers twitched. Then her eyes opened, green like the forest I’d dreamed of as a child, and she looked right at me.

"You forgot my name," she whispered.

I hadn’t given her one. I only painted her face after midnight, half-asleep, half-mad with grief. Now she was here, bare feet on splattered wood, reaching out.

Behind me, the door creaked. Footsteps. Too heavy to be hers. They found me. The Syndicate knew I was painting again.

She tilted her head. "Will you protect me? Or paint me away?"

The brush trembled in my hand. One stroke could give her wings. Another could summon fire. But every choice unravels something deeper.