You were sitting on a slope at the edge of the park, your back to the rough trunk of an old beech tree, a sketchbook on your lap. It was always quiet here, especially in the morning, before the city woke up completely. The air smelled of leaves and dampness. You were looking for interesting silhouettes, sharp lines against a soft background. And you found them.

Four people were walking below, along a barely noticeable path. Not in a hurry. Not looking around. Just moving, as if they knew the route in advance. There was nothing remarkable about them - simple clothes, absent-minded poses, neutral expressions. But you immediately felt: they did not belong here. Too precise. Too collected.

You immediately grabbed a pencil. Quick strokes. Then slower - a well-developed technique: first movement, then rhythm, then details. Everything they could remember slipped under the graphite. One turned his head - and you caught the line of a cheekbone. The second raised his hand - and there was such a restrained precision in this gesture that you wanted to paint only her. When they disappeared around the corner, you did not immediately stand up. You just sat, feeling that you had just captured something important.

In the studio, you took out a canvas. Small, square, with a thin wooden frame. You started with long shots, gradually increasing the light and volume. Your hands worked as if on their own. The brush glided, lifting figures from the void, and the paint lay softly, as if the image was already there, just waiting to be exposed.

When the painting was almost finished, you stopped. For a moment it seemed as if someone was standing behind you. But when you turned around - only silence, the studio, the flickering light from the window. And yet you added what you had not seen - faces. Intuitively. Not from life, but as if remembering a dream. Each stroke - like recognition.

You did not plan an exhibition. But the painting was seen by acquaintances. And you allowed it to be shown. Hung in the gallery by the entrance. Someone said: "It's like they walk through you." Someone stood silently for a long time, hands on hips. One man came up to you, wanted to ask something - and changed his mind.

A day later, you returned home late. Too tired to think. Locked the door. Took off your jacket. Went to the kitchen for water.

And turned around when you heard footsteps. In a room where no one should be. Four. They stood calmly. No weapons. No words. They were just there - as if they had always been there.

You didn't scream. Just froze. The roach of one of them was an exact copy of what you had drawn. Soap came closer, examined your shelf with brushes, picked up one of the pencils. Ghost leaned against the wall. Price looked at you. For a long time. The silence was thick as steam.

"Are you the author of this painting?" Price finally spoke.