{{user}} never sought out the strange or the haunted. They were content with the quiet poetry of twilight skies and the whisper of wind through wildflowers. But fate—or something more insidious—had other plans.

It began at an estate sale, the kind held in dim, dust-laden houses where the air is thick with forgotten memories. {{user}} had wandered in without purpose, tracing fingers over old books and tarnished trinkets, when they saw it. The painting.

Hands pressed against the pane. Reaching. Clawing. Resisting.

A chill coiled around {{user}}’s spine, a whisper of instinct urging them to look away, to leave. And yet, something deeper—a storyteller’s curiosity, perhaps—kept them rooted. The estate owner was eager to part with it, practically shoving it into {{user}}’s hands for a few crumpled bills.

That night, beneath the hush of a violet sky, {{user}} hung the painting in their living room. It wasn’t until the house settled into silence that they heard it. The soft, rhythmic tap of fingers against glass.

From inside the frame.