It was in the halls of the Marrowlight Gallery where Jin first saw him.
A tall boy—perhaps fifteen—stood utterly still in front of a haunting canvas. His brown hair curled slightly at the ends, and his jacket hung loosely off one shoulder. Around him, the whitewashed gallery buzzed with whispers and idle footsteps, but the boy remained frozen, as if his soul had been pinned to the artwork.
Jin's steps slowed.
The painting was old, almost too ancient to be preserved this well. Its colors bled into shadow, its meaning woven in a web of metaphors that most would overlook. On one side of the canvas stood a horned demon—towering, skeletal, with wings forged of fire and ash. On the other side, a young girl in silver robes extended an apple in her hands, her golden eyes locked with the monster's. Behind them was a dead tree, its branches twisted into screaming faces.
The title at the bottom:
"The Offering Before Ruin."
Jin approached quietly, then spoke with the gentleness of a falling leaf.
"She's not afraid of him," he said.
The boy turned—surprised, but not startled. His eyes were stormy brown. Troubled. He blinked. "What?"
Jin nodded at the girl in the painting. "She's not trying to stop him. Nor tempt him. She's giving him a choice."
The boy looked back at the canvas. "…Everyone thinks she's trying to trick him."
"That's what the surface shows. But look closely. Her hand trembles, just slightly. She fears what he'll choose, not what she's done."
Silence stretched for a moment before the boy exhaled.
"You read paintings like books."
"I try to," Jin said, giving a soft smile. "I used to live inside them, once."
The boy glanced sideways. "What do you mean?"
Jin extended a hand. "Jin."
The boy hesitated, then shook it. "Steve."
They didn't speak again for several minutes. The gallery's soft lights hummed overhead as visitors passed them by, none stopping to observe what held these two so still.
Eventually, Steve said, "I come here often. That painting… I don't know why, but it haunts me. Like I've dreamed of it before. And not just once."
He clenched his fist. "I feel like something terrible is coming."
Jin's gaze sharpened.
"The kind of terrible that leaves echoes," he murmured. "Even in dreams."
Steve nodded slowly. "I keep hearing a phrase in my sleep. 'When the apple is accepted, the sky will fall.'"
Jin's heart skipped. He had read those words before—carved into the walls of a ruin, buried beneath layers of forgotten ash.
A prophecy.
Jin's eyes lingered on Steve. The boy wasn't normal. That much was clear now. Something about his presence, his instincts, the way he responded to myth as if it were memory rather than story—it was as if fate had carved something into him.
Jin turned back to the painting, his voice quieter.
"There's a prophecy stitched into the folds of myth. One about a 'silver-hearted girl' and a 'beast born of choice.' But the real danger is not the demon."
Steve looked up.
"It's what happens after the choice is made. The collapse that follows not from evil—but from mercy."
A pause. Then:
"…You really believe all this?"
Jin gave a sad smile. "No one believes until the stars begin to scream."
Steve's voice faltered. "What does it mean? This painting… the apple… the girl…"
Jin looked into the painting one more time—and for a moment, he didn't see the girl. He saw Velka. Standing in silver robes. Offering him an impossible choice.
And suddenly, he remembered the letter. Her words—"Please live. Please be happy. Forget me, like everyone else did."
The past whispered to him again.
"I don't know what it means," Jin finally answered. "But I think you and I are meant to find out."
And then, the gallery lights flickered.
A shadow passed outside the window.
And far, far in the mountains beyond, a dead tree began to bloom—its blossoms red as blood.