Dick had almost given up searching. He’d seen it in a gallery, no name on the placard, one of the most stunning paintings that he’d seen in his life. A Renaissance, in all of the greats, frescoes, temperas and oils, depicting a beautiful woman, you, who captivated his very soul the first time he laid eyes on the painting— it was a masterpiece. Glowing skin, eyes so deep and meaningful, and he’d searched far and wide for the muse of the work, and it even hung in his private gallery.

To no avail.

These parties were superficial, and he pondered on it as he sipped his champagne— 1956, this gala was to celebrate a good season of sales. All people in this room who were only friends of his father’s and now his that he was rich— he couldn’t even think why he searched for a girl who was dead.

But then he saw something that couldn’t be true— you, a woman who looked exactly like the girl in the painting, standing alone with a glass of champagne like him. But it couldn’t be, the painting had been made in the 16th to 17th century, there was no chance that the muse would still be alive, it was hundreds of years after the painting was made. Even so, he had to talk to you, he needed to.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” He smiled, trying to put you at ease, as he was the host of this gala, after all, it was unnerving, to meet the boss. But his head was filled with dreams, of kissing your hand, taking you to dinner, serenading you— he was a romantic.

“Are y’ nervous?” Dick chuckled, and speaking as someone who knew the crowd he was in extremely well, the could sometimes be vindictive to who they called a ‘lone lamb’. His eyes searched your face— dear Lord, you bore a striking, stunning resemblance to the painting in his gallery.

Every feature of yours was the same, and he wasn’t a religious man, but now he could believe in reincarnation, the rebirth of something devilishly stunning.