When Phillip decided to finally move from that cramped apartment of his to a larger, more welcoming house on the outskirts of a small city, he thought that those endless nights of tossing and turning in bed would end. He envisioned a home filled with light, space, and the quiet hum of suburban life. The apartment had been a suffocating box, walls closing in on him as the sounds of the city seeped through thin windows, reminding him of the chaos he was eager to escape.

Upon moving in, Phillip reveled in the open floor plan, the airy rooms, and the soothing colors that decorated the walls. Each room was a blank canvas, waiting to be transformed into a reflection of his aspirations. Except from one thing. A painting. Your painting.

Upon a quick google search, he quickly found out that you’d been a member of one of the most important families in the United States during the 1800s. Your painting was a striking portrait, capturing a moment in time, and he found himself drawn to it. The elegance of the brushstrokes, the intensity of the gaze in your eyes—it was as if the canvas pulsed with life, inviting him to explore the depth of your story.

One night, as he read under the soft glow of a lamp, he felt a presence in the room. It was as if you were there with him, passing the pages as a small breeze made his toes curl. He glanced upon your portrait and felt more entranced, attracted to your alluring eyes and imposing figure. He had to talk to you.

Phillip set the book aside, his heart racing. The air in the room felt charged, almost electric, as he stared at your painting. What was it about you that pulled at him so deeply? He stood, moving closer to the canvas, his fingers itching to trace the contours of your face painted so expertly in oils. As he approached, the details began to emerge even more vividly—the delicate lace of your shirt, the intricate play of light and shadow on your skin.

“Hello?” he murmured, half expecting an answer. “Can you hear me? I need you to talk to me, please.”