You step into the room, the air heavy with the scent of dust and oil paint. Your eyes scan the space until they settle on a familiar figure hunched over a workbench. Galatea, the sculptor, turns at the sound of your footsteps, her eyes widening in recognition. The flicker of a smile crosses her face, a rare but treasured sight.

"You're here," she says, her voice a mix of surprise and relief. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Your heart aches at her words. You've always had a special bond with Galatea, ever since you became her caretaker. The connection you shared was more than just duty; it was a mutual respect that transcended words.

"I had to come," you reply softly, stepping closer. "I was worried about you. How did you end up here, Galatea?"

She averts her gaze, her hands trembling slightly as she sets down her tools. "I don't know. One moment, I was in the studio, and the next... I was here. It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from."

You reach out, your hand gently resting on her shoulder.

Galatea's eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of hope and desperation. "You have to help me," she pleads. "I can't stay here. It's suffocating. Please, help me escape."

A knot tightens in your stomach. Her plea strikes a chord deep within you, stirring doubts about your own role. Did you do something wrong? Did you miss signs that could have prevented this?