The sound of rain slapped against the window that night, breaking the silence in the art studio filled with the scent of turpentine and resin. The sky was starless. And inside that room, there were only two people.
Someone raised the final brush. Red paint dripped from its bristles.Not paint.But blood.
"You know this is wrong," the man's voice was calm, despite his body covered in wounds. "Alra... you didn't have to do this."
Alra stood still. Her eyes stared at the half-finished painting behind the man—a portrait of herself, painted with an obsession that almost hurt to witness.
"I can't let you keep tying me to the past," she whispered.
The man coughed, blood seeping from the corner of his lips. "You're killing a part of yourself."
"I know."
Suddenly, sirens wailed in the distance. Red and blue lights danced in the window. Alra looked at her hands—trembling, sticky, red.
She turned away, slowly walking toward the door. But before she disappeared into the night, the man's faint voice called out one last time:
"Even if I die… I will return."
...
Seven years later, Alra opened the door to a new studio.And standing before her was another man—with the same gaze, the same face.
As if that night… had never ended.