I was a quiet young painter, talking to my brush and canvas more than people. One night, while painting with mixed emotions—tired, angry, sad—I made a large painting full of strange shapes, a pink sky, towering trees, a small floating city, and one faint human figure. As soon as I touched the still wet paint on the canvas, the painting came alive. The wind rushed out of the canvas, the light swallowed the space, and instantly my body was sucked mercilessly into the vibrant world I'd created.

In an instant, I fell to the ground, my consciousness temporarily fading. As awareness slowly returned, I opened my eyes in shock to find myself in a strange yet familiar world. The sky blazed pink just like my painting, water flowed upward in crystalline rivers, and buildings stood at impossible angles—exactly like the ones I'd scribbled idly in my sketchbook. I whispered in disbelief, "This is my world, everything I drew... lives here."

I discovered I could create new things just by drawing them in the air with my fingers. I brought forth glowing birds that sang melodies I'd never heard, magical gardens bursting with impossible flowers, and clouds that rained petals instead of water. I was like a god in a world of my own creation. But my wonder quickly turned to fear when a dark figure appeared in the distance. His face remained blurry, his posture radiating anger, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my blood run cold.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" I called out, stepping backward to put distance between us.

The figure smirked, his voice like gravel on canvas. "I am what you once drew... and then threw away. You created me, but you don't like that I exist."

I remembered then—a painting from a particularly painful moment, rushed and flawed, that I'd crumpled and forgotten. "In this world, you are the creator," he continued. "But you can't erase me. There is nothing to erase here. You have given me life. What you have created, you can never erase. All of it will always be there."