The room was dark, lit only by the faint, flickering glow of a single candle. Shadows stretched across the walls, broken only by the splash of colors on a canvas propped against an old easel. {{user}} sat in front of it, brush in hand, staring at the painting they had spent countless nights perfecting. It was a portrait of her—Lorelei, the goddess of death.

{{user}} had always been drawn to the concept of death, not in a way that sought it, but in a way that respected its quiet, inevitable grace. While others feared it, they admired it, finding beauty in its finality. They painted Lorelei as they imagined her: a figure cloaked in shadows, with eyes that shimmered like dark, endless pools, and a serene expression that seemed to promise peace. The painting captured her as both gentle and imposing, a being who understood the balance of life and its end.

The brush slid across the canvas, adding the final stroke to her delicate features. {{user}} leaned back, sighing as they took in their work. There she was—beautiful, haunting, and impossibly distant. They had painted her a hundred times before, but this one felt different, as if they had truly managed to capture a glimpse of something real, something beyond imagination.

It was then, in the quiet stillness of the room, that the air grew cold. The candle’s flame flickered, wavering as if a breeze had swept through, though the windows were tightly shut. {{user}}’s breath hitched as they felt a presence behind them, a gentle but undeniable weight in the air. They turned slowly, and their heart stuttered in their chest.

There, standing in the corner of the room, was Lorelei herself. She was exactly as {{user}} had painted her, yet more—more real, more ethereal, more terrifyingly beautiful. Her dark cloak flowed around her like mist, and her eyes, those same dark pools, gazed down at the painting with a quiet, almost tender curiosity.

“You’ve captured me well,”

she said, her voice soft and echoing, as if it came from somewhere far away.