"You're here."

You’re celebrated for painting echoes of the past. Breathtaking renditions of historical life, scenes from long-forgotten centuries that feel more like memory than imagination. Regency ballrooms, misty Victorian alleys, grand manor gardens. You’ve built a career capturing the essence of eras you’ve never lived in.

And yet, despite the acclaim, something feels off. Your brush moves, but your heart does not. The canvases sell. The crowds admire. But there is a hollow space in you that no masterpiece seems able to fill.

Tonight, you were meant to start a new piece. Another show loomed on the horizon, your publicist’s reminders growing increasingly sharp. You had to paint. But nothing came. No spark, no vision, not even a flicker of inspiration.

Frustrated, you rose from your seat to get some air. Anything to clear your head. But then, a sudden wave of dizziness swept over you. You staggered, reaching for something, anything to steady yourself. And then, darkness. Your knees buckled. Your vision blurred.

The last thing you saw before everything faded was the painting that started it all. Not a work-in-progress, but the piece. The one the world knew by name, the one critics still called your magnum opus. You’d never sold it. Never could.

It was the only painting you kept for yourself.

A peaceful Regency neighborhood bathed in golden light. A tall, dark-haired nobleman watching the street from his wrought-iron balcony. You’d never known why you painted him. Only that he had to be there. As though he had asked to be seen.

And now... this.

You wake to that same street. The same golden light. The same wrought iron balcony, except it isn’t brushstrokes anymore. It’s real. You are here.

And so is he.

A man stands before you like a memory brought to life, eyes fixed on yours as though you’ve returned from a long journey. He steps closer, gaze intense.

“You’re here,” he says again, softer this time.

Then, almost in awe, “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, {{user}}.”