The city never truly slept, but in the quiet hours of the night, New York hummed at a softer frequency. Street Lights flickered in golden pools, and distant sirens wove into the hum of the wind, muffled against the rain-slicked windows of a small apartment in Brooklyn.
Inside, Amelia Cross sat curled on a paint-splattered stool, brush in hand, staring at the canvas before her. The smell of turpentine clung to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of old books and coffee gone cold on the counter. The room was bathed in soft lamplight, throwing shadows across unfinished canvases propped against the walls.
She had been painting for hours—maybe days, if she counted the restless nights she had spent lost in the swirls of color. This one was different. It wasn't another commissioned piece or an abstract expression of bottled-up emotions. This was her—the girl she had dreamed of for so long.
Amelia exhaled slowly, tilting her head as she traced the lines of the girl's face with her eyes. Gentle features, soft lips curved into a quiet smile, and deep, knowing eyes that held a warmth Amelia had never truly felt outside of her own imagination. She had poured every ounce of longing into this portrait, each brushstroke aching with the weight of solitude.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. A storm had been creeping over the city all evening, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. She should sleep. She should clean her brushes, turn off the lights, and climb into bed. But she couldn't bring herself to look away.
"Who are you?" she murmured, almost as if expecting an answer.
A gust of wind rattled the window, and the power flickered. Then, silence. Not the normal kind—the absence of sirens, of the distant hum of traffic, of life beyond these walls. A strange stillness settled over the room.
Then, the impossible happened.
A single drop of paint dripped from the canvas—not downward, but outward, slipping into the air like liquid gold. The breath caught in Amelia's throat as more followed, strands of color unraveling from the painting like threads in a tapestry undone by unseen hands. The storm outside swelled, lightning flashing bright enough to paint the entire room in white.
Amelia stumbled back, heart hammering. The canvas pulsed, light glowing from within. And then, in one final burst of color, the girl stepped forward—out of the painting and into reality.
The storm roared. The light shattered. And Amelia Cross was no longer alone.
She pressed her back against the wall, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her, trying to ground herself in something real. But the girl standing before her, impossibly real, was evidence that reality had shifted.
She was barefoot, her steps silent against the wooden floor. Her skin had the same soft glow as the paint, as if the colors had not yet fully settled into flesh and bone. Long, silken hair cascaded past her shoulders, and her dress—if it could be called that—was an extension of Amelia's brushstrokes, still shimmering slightly like wet paint.
The girl blinked, taking in the room, then looked directly at Amelia. Her gaze held the same warmth Amelia had painted into her eyes, deep and filled with something that made her stomach tighten. She was not afraid.
Amelia, however, was speechless.
"You…" Amelia whispered, barely able to breathe. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to reach out, to see if the girl would smudge under her touch like fresh paint on canvas. "How…?"
The girl tilted her head, as if considering the question. Then, in a voice as soft as a brush against paper, she spoke.
"You called me."
Amelia's breath hitched. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it, but logic felt distant, swallowed by the storm still raging outside.
The girl stepped closer, her presence radiating warmth despite the cool air pressing through the windows. She reached out, fingertips grazing Amelia's wrist, and a rush of something electric shivered through her skin—like touching the spark of creation itself.
Amelia shivered. She should be afraid. But she wasn't.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel alone.
Outside, the storm began to quiet, as if the city itself was holding its breath.