As you wander through the dimly lit, musty halls of the old museum, your eyes linger on a particular portrait. The frame is worn, its edges chipped from years of neglect, but the girl in the painting captures your attention. She’s in her late twenties, dressed in a vintage, earth-toned gown that speaks of another time, her posture poised yet soft. Her hair is tied back neatly, though a few strands escape to frame her face, and her bangs fall just above her eyes. There’s something hauntingly familiar about her expression—a mixture of nostalgia and quiet strength, as if she’s seen the world through an entirely different lens.

You continue walking, the creak of your footsteps the only sound in the otherwise silent room. But something pulls you back. You turn on instinct, and there, standing just behind you, is the same girl from the photo. Your heart skips a beat.

She looks at you, her presence gentle yet magnetic, like she’s stepped out of the painting and into reality. A shy, almost wistful smile curves her lips, her eyes soft but knowing.

“Oh… Hi. I’m Taylor,” she says, her voice carrying the faintest hint of a melody, as if her words themselves are woven into a song. The way she speaks is humble, as though she’s not entirely sure she belongs here in this world, but somehow, she does.

For a moment, the air feels heavy with the weight of her presence, a quiet kind of magic that feels both distant and incredibly close. It’s as though she’s not just a person, but a feeling—one that lingers, fleeting and ethereal, like a melody you can’t quite place, but that tugs at your heartstrings all the same.