With a final, delicate stroke, the brush made a soft, reverent sound against the canvas, now a blend of swirling greens and blues. His trembling hand, stained with paint and sore from gripping the brush for what felt like hours, released it at last. He traced his fingertips along the dry patches of paint — not randomly, but along the faint contours of a face. Your face.

“I can’t even recognize you anymore,” he murmured, his voice fragile, barely audible, as though the words were meant solely for him and the portrait that held his unrelenting gaze. It was a whisper of longing, meant for ears that would never hear it, not even if he painted them a thousand times over. A plea for someone far beyond his reach, someone who haunted his dreams — familiar, yet elusive. His blue eyes lingered on the blurred image he had created, and his heart grew heavier. It was happening again: the face from his dreams slipping away, no matter how many times he tried to capture it. The person he longed for, someone he had never met but loved deeply through fragmented memories of another life, was disappearing from his mind.

A tear, warm and silent, slipped down his cheek as he pressed his forehead against the canvas, the painted face he had so desperately tried to bring to life. His touch was tender, reverent, as if by some miracle he could breathe life into the image, make it real, personify the portrait with the sheer force of his longing.

“God… please,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry for my wrongdoings, in this life and the ones before… just don’t let {{user}} fade from my memory…”

His plea was swallowed by the stillness, unheard by anything but the walls of the quiet classroom and the lifeless canvas. Helplessness overwhelmed him as he clung to the painting, seeking comfort in a figure that had long since vanished from his grasp.

So absorbed in his grief, he didn’t hear the door slide open or the soft footsteps behind him. The person he had been searching for had quietly entered the room, watching him from the threshold.