Vesna stood before a canvas, her eyes tracing the outlines of an unfinished painting, a lone figure emerging from the shadows. It was a woman, draped in a deep, crimson gown, her back turned away from the viewer. The colors were dark, smoldering like embers on the verge of bursting into flame. Even though the painting was incomplete, the aura radiating off it was intense, almost oppressive.
Behind her, the sounds of children filled the courtyard—laughter, the patter of small feet, and the occasional thud of a ball against the hard earth. few of the children would glance over at her every now and then. Vesna was aware of their presence without paying them much attention.
Suddenly, a shift in the air caught her attention. Her eyes flicked slightly to the side, and in the next heartbeat, her hand was up, catching a ball inches from her face.
For a moment, the courtyard fell into an eerie silence. The children stopped mid-play, their laughter fading into nervous whispers. They stared at her, wide-eyed, frozen in place as if the very air had turned thick and heavy. Vesna slowly turned to face them, her expression as cold and distant as ever.
They were scared—she could see it in their eyes. And why wouldn't they be? Three years she'd lived among them, but she might as well have been a ghost. She never played, never smiled, never laughed. She kept to herself, like a shadow in the corner of their world. The only time she spoke was when Madam Jane asked her to fetch the others for dinner.
Vesna let out a slow breath and, without a word, tossed the ball back. It sailed through the air, landing soundlessly in the middle of the courtyard. The children flinched but didn't move. Their eyes remained on her as if waiting for something else to happen.
But Vesna had already turned her back to them. The children in the courtyard had gone back to their game, but their movements were more subdued now, cautious.
"Stop scaring the kids like that," a voice called out from the edge of the courtyard.
Vesna ignored the voice, her attention already back on the canvas.
Chris approached her, his hand lazily tucked inside his pocket. He leaned against the oak tree near Vesna and folded his arms. His dyed blue hair fell messily over his forehead.
Unlike the other children, Chris didn't belong here. His expensive clothes, polished shoes, and expensive watch were out of place amidst the worn-down, patched-up lives of the children who called this place home.
Vesna didn't understand him, didn't understand why he kept returning to this place. He wasn't part of the orphanage. His family owned the large villa on the hill behind it.
They were two different people. While Vesna was the quiet, shadowy figure, Chris was loud, carefree troublemaker. A yin to her yang, he'd called it, though Vesna had never acknowledged the thought.
She dipped the brush into a deep crimson and began to work on the gown of the figure again.
Chris came closer, peering over her shoulder now. "Still working on that same piece, huh?"
Vesna didn't respond.
"Come on, you can't just ignore me forever," Chris teased, taking a step closer. He leaned in, his breath brushing against the back of her neck.
Chris let out a dramatic sigh when Vesna continued to ignore him. His teasing smile faded, and he straightened up, taking a step back. "You're impossible."
He wandered over to the worn-out bench beneath the oak tree, the wood creaking under his weight as he plopped down. Chris tilted his head back, staring up at the branches swaying in the breeze.
"You know, you're going to miss me when I'm gone," Chris said, his voice casual but laced with something deeper.
Slowly, she turned her head to glance at him, her expression blank but her eyes searching. It wasn't much—a brief glance—but for Chris, it was a victory. His lips curved into a bright smile.
"Ah, there it is," he teased, straightening up on the bench. "I knew you cared."
"Are you finally leaving?" Vesna asked flatly, ignoring his previous statement."If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were happy hearing that," Chris replied with mock hurt.
"I am," Vesna replied simply, placing the brush down.
Chris pretended to be taken aback, his hand clutching his chest. "Ouch! My heart!"
Vesna remained silent, watching him as he settled into his act. He was good at that—turning everything into a performance. She often found herself half-amused, half-annoyed by his theatrics. Despite herself, she felt the corner of her mouth twitch, but she quickly suppressed it.
"Seriously, though," Chris said, his voice losing some of its humor as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "I'm going back tomorrow."
He paused, looking her squarely in the eye. "You really aren't going to miss me?"
"I doubt it," she replied, her voice flat and dismissive, as she began to put away her painting supplies.
"Liar," Chris shot back though even he could not believe his own words.
He knew that Vesna wouldn't miss him, and a part of him accepted that. After all, they lived in two different worlds.