The rain had passed, but the air still smelled like thunder.
Back at home, Maya sat on the edge of her bed, clutching the old sunflower sketch. She should've felt proud. She'd stepped into a world she once feared—and didn't fall apart.
But her hands were trembling.
That man.
His eyes hadn't just seen her. They'd studied her. Like he already knew too much.
She pushed the memory away and glanced at the new drawing—the girl in the storm. She'd left it unfinished, not because she couldn't complete it, but because… something told her the story wasn't done yet.
---
Later that evening, her aunt peeked into the room.
> "You okay, sweetheart?"
Maya nodded, forcing a smile.
> "Just tired."
But she wasn't tired. She was wired—thoughts racing. Questions twisting in the dark.
> Who was he?
Why did he look familiar?
Was this just paranoia—or something real?
---
The next day, Maya returned to the museum—not to sketch, but to confront her fear. She wandered through the galleries, each step echoing louder than the last.
And then she saw him again.
Gray coat. Calm posture. Same eyes.
He stood by the sculpture wing this time, pretending to examine a marble bust—but when she turned away, she caught his reflection in the glass.
Still watching.
Her heart pounded.
> "Excuse me?" she called out, surprising even herself.
He looked up. Smiled politely.
> "Yes?"
> "Do I know you?" she asked, voice steady.
The man tilted his head, as if amused.
> "No, but I know your work. It's… expressive. Raw. Real."
> "How?"
> "I follow the restoration blog," he said smoothly. "Your sunflower sketch was featured last year, before it went missing. I just happened to recognize it."
Maya frowned. Something felt off.
That blog hadn't updated in two years.
Before she could reply, Luca appeared beside her.
> "Everything okay?" he asked, eyes flicking to the man.
> "Fine," she said too quickly.
The man extended a hand to Luca.
> "Just admiring her work. She's talented."
> "She is," Luca said coolly, not shaking his hand.
The man smiled again.
> "Well. I'll be around. Artists like her tend to leave trails worth following."
And then he was gone.
---
Back at home, Maya sat at her desk, sketching furiously—not flowers, not storms—but eyes. His eyes. The way they narrowed. The cold behind the smile.
She didn't know what scared her more: that he recognized her art, or that he might know her past.
As the pencil scraped across paper, Maya whispered to herself:
> "You wanted to be seen. Just not like this."