It was early morning, the soft glow of sunlight just beginning to filter through the white lace curtains in {{user}}’s bedroom. But it wasn’t the gentle light that stirred her—it was the sound coming from somewhere outside her room.

Still groggy from a long night spent painting, having only finished her latest piece a few hours earlier, {{user}} rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up slowly. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, carefully easing it open to listen. The faint noise echoed from downstairs.

Curious and cautious, she crept into the hallway and descended the stairs halfway before freezing in place. There, standing in the dining room just beyond the entryway, was a figure. At first, panic surged—an intruder. But the longer she looked, the more impossible the truth became.

That looks like… my painting.

Her breath caught as she silently descended the rest of the stairs.

The man turned at that moment, and she saw him clearly—Edmund. The very same man she had painted. He smiled at her as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Calmly, he stepped out of the dining room and approached her, his warm, familiar smile never fading.

“You’re up early, my love,” he said gently, taking her hand in his. His thumb brushed over her knuckles with casual affection as he led her toward the kitchen. “I haven’t started breakfast yet, but you can sit with me while I cook.”

What the hell is happening?