It was around March 26th when I attended my mother's funeral—a young actress on the rise who, unfortunately, met a tragic end by her own hands.

The old, distant relatives at the funeral just mumbled, their breath reeking of rotting carcasses and cigarettes.They spouted nonsense about how a woman without a husband could never manage to live alone, raising a child.

Honestly, I never even came close to having a normal mother-daughter relationship with her. After all, after being abandoned during her pregnancy, my mother focused on getting her body back into shape to remain the most beautiful model in the country.

The price for her lack of time and the scarcity of love I received was having everything money could buy: games, sweets, clothes, toys... anything that could fill the void in my heart.

I say this without exaggeration, but the woman inside that coffin was someone I couldn't recognize. Her face and features had changed so much since the last time I had seen her alive. That didn't look like my mother.

Dressed in black beside the coffin, lifting the veil that covered my face, it was now my turn to say my final words as they lowered the large wooden box into the grave, seven spans of earth below me.

-Mom, my best friend and the most beautiful flower in the whole world, I hope you take your golden trophies with you and can rest in peace for all you've achieved.- It was a lie. That serene face, covered in makeup, would never rest in peace, and it's possible that even in heaven, she'd try to compete with God for His brilliance.

My tears didn't fall like those of the crocodiles surrounding the place, and I feel bad about that. My bitter smile over the coffin was sincere, but what I felt was anguish. If she had stayed alive and truly reached the top where she wanted to be, appearing in all the movies and TV shows, would she have ever come home happy and celebrated with me? But, like a black hole "the most beautiful one I've ever seen" she tried to swallow everything she could: people's attention, my attention on her, but only on a glowing TV screen, the one I always wanted to be the biggest, so that her brilliance, with pearls around her neck, would never seem like it could one day be replaced by a simple, frayed rope.

I could see out of the corner of my eye an older man with graying hair and a well-groomed beard slipping behind me, his black suit and polished shoes gleaming. Placing his left hand on my shoulder, this man, as handsome as my mother, spoke with the gentle words of the grandfather I had always loved:

— Lucia, we should talk later about the estate and who you'll live with, shouldn't we?

I placed my hand over the old man's, squeezing it firmly—a sensation I had experienced as a child when I was sick; The feeling of a warm hand on my back, taking care of me.

— Grandpa, you don't need to worry. I'm already 20, and I'll probably manage just fine with my mother's inheritance. I don't intend to disturb your peace or Grandma's, because I'm sure she wouldn't like the idea of me moving in with you.

Yes, my grandmother is exactly like my mother—a cunning woman, sharp as a fox, who grows richer every day. She was the one who told my mother that beauty was more valuable than her own life, that money was more valuable than time, and that fame follows you even in death. Following these ideas, my mother would occasionally appear in our luxurious home, her breasts growing larger each time and her lips swollen as if a wasp had stung them.

I walked my grandfather to the shiny black car right after the funeral. Sitting in the passenger seat, I took one last look through the window: a somber black funeral with reporters waiting outside, trying to get in, and the vulture-like relatives I had never seen in my life pretending to cry.

My grandfather had always been a simple man, and even though he was rich and could afford a driver, he never allowed anyone else to drive his car. Even with his hands trembling from Parkinson's, he would always repeat to me:

— My arm won't fall off from holding the steering wheel.

— I understand, Grandpa, but one day you're going to crash if you're not careful. You're not a young man anymore—you're already in your 80s. One of these days, I'll get my driver's license, and I'll start driving you around myself. When you need to go somewhere, I'll already have my hands on your beloved old car.

— Don't even think about it. You might be my favorite granddaughter (and the only one), but you're never touching my 1967 Impala. I want to be buried in it if possible… Oh, sorry, dear, I think I've said too much…

My face certainly soured hearing that, thinking about the not-so-distant future. I didn't want to let that kind of expression show in front of my beloved grandfather. I know his health isn't the best, and we just came from his own daughter's funeral, but I don't want to imagine losing the only person I have left.

— Grandpa, can we stop somewhere before we go home?

— Of course, Lucia. Just tell me where you want to go, and I'll take you.

— You know that old museum that's about to be demolished? Bianca took me there once, when I was little, but I don't remember where it was.

— Bianca, you mean… your mother? I think I know which museum you're talking about. Your grandma and I used to go there too. You know, your grandma loves works of art, because the most beautiful works of art are worth—

— Worth millions. — I continued.

I know, it was something my mother always used to say to me too, and it ended up sticking in my mind like drops of wine on white fabric…

[...]

A few hours after we left the city, a museum could be seen in the distance, falling apart with the passage of time. It was entirely made of wood, with a glass roof, and had no sign or plaque indicating the name of the institution.

— It's almost exactly as I remember it, just missing a few walls — said my grandfather, getting out of the car and placing his hands on his hips.

— I think this is the place. Grandpa, do you mind if I go in alone? I want to breathe in the air of old things inside.

— I think it's dangerous. What if there's a homeless person living inside? Or some fugitive?

— Hm… If you're worried about that, I don't think there's anything to fear as long as that old guard is still out front — I said, discreetly pointing to a man who apparently my grandfather knew. His eyes lit up as if he had reunited with an old friend.

— Ah, of course! How did I not think of that? That grumpy Thomas still hasn't left this place. Even though his back isn't what it used to be, he still hasn't retired.

— Unlike you, you old rich man, I still have my ears and eyes sharp! With just a flick of my fingers, I could shoot a bullet right into your backside! — The man's voice echoed from a distance, coming from the guard booth. He really did seem to have a strong, grumpy personality. My grandfather let out a loud laugh, and the two began talking like old friends.

— Well, dear, I'll stay here with Thomas while you look around. If anything happens, just yell for this old man here — he said, pointing to his friend beside him.

I entered the museum, while in the distance I could still hear the two men laughing. My grandfather was talking about me to Thomas, who said I looked just like my grandmother when she was younger: beautiful, with a slender face, ashy brown hair, and dark eyes that turned violet in the sunlight, along with a small mole on my iris.

[...]

I walked through the museum's corridors, my steps echoing on the marble floor. Most of the artworks had already been removed before the demolition, to be sent to another museum or sold. But among the statues, vases, and paintings, I was looking for only one thing: "The Beautiful Woman."

In the museum's old guestbook, which served as a guide for tourists, it was written that "The Beautiful Woman" was painted by one of Leonardo da Vinci's pupils. The story went that he was divinely inspired upon seeing the most beautiful woman of his life crying crystalline tears by a lake. To avoid startling her, he hid behind some bushes and made countless sketches. To keep the memory of that vision alive, he began painting the portrait with urgency. However, by the time the work was finished and varnished, the woman had disappeared before she could even see it.

Of course, this story could just be a legend. When I was between eight and ten years old, I did extensive research on the painting and even spoke to art professors, but no one could confirm the authenticity of the work or identify its true owner.

[...]

I walked for almost half an hour, trying to remember where I had seen the painting as a child. My mother had taken me through the entire museum that day, and despite the exhaustion, I was happy to be able to hold her hand.

It was nighttime, and the white lights attached to the glass ceiling illuminated the space. I remember my mother holding my wrist and guiding me to the last artwork in the museum.

— Do you see, Lucia? This painting depicts a beautiful woman. Her long hair, her garments, and her face… that's what made her admired. But what good is something beautiful if there's no one to appreciate it?

As a child, I didn't understand what my mother meant. To me, the woman with the sad expression in the painting didn't seem beautiful. But now, years later, staring at the painting again, I think Bianca was trying to tell me that the beauty of that work secured its place here. However, I think that if it weren't for the genuine love in the artist's eyes as he painted it, perhaps it wouldn't be so beautiful.

Up close, the painting seemed smaller than I remembered. Maybe I've grown a lot since then. I leaned in to observe the delicate details: the floral lace on the woman's dress, her ashy brown hair, her violet eyes...

Being so close to it, I feel, in a way, closer to my mother. But even so, the time I lost judging her can't be recovered just because I now try to understand her.

The cold air inside the museum doesn't bother me. On the contrary, I feel warm, because there's a warmth inside me.

My years of studying alone were fun. Money, instead of making me a spoiled young woman, gave me the opportunity to learn everything I wanted: art, math, physics, electronics, crochet, and various other crafts. I even thought that if a tiger appeared now, I'd have enough skills to escape.

— Haha... — I let out a weak laugh. The thought was so absurd that I almost took it seriously.

I have all the time in the world to come back here. But even with Thomas guarding the museum outside, maybe my grandfather was right: instead of a tiger, someone dangerous could really be around.

As I walked away from the painting, I heard a metallic clinking sound on the floor. Maybe one of the broken windows let the wind in and knocked over a sculpture; or perhaps someone had dropped a set of keys. But after the noise, I didn't hear footsteps or feel any wind.

A shiver ran down my spine when the metallic sound—or was it the sound of crystals falling?—returned behind me.

I need to move slowly toward the exit. Maybe if I ignore the sound, it won't hurt or disturb me.

I took a step. The marble floor echoed loudly.

— Damn heels! — I muttered under my breath.

I should run, but the strange feeling and now the sounds of crying and crystals falling made me hesitate. Maybe…

— The painting...

An insane idea crossed my mind. What if there really were magnificent things like magic or ghosts?

I turned quickly, but in a way that if something went wrong, I could easily run.

— Bingo! — The distorted face of the woman in the painting smiled at me. Before I could react, her hand was already gripping my arm, pulling me into the painting.

It happened so fast that I couldn't see anything during the transition, but with my eyes closed in fear, I felt like I was falling from a great height. In my head, mixed emotions raced through me: surprise that supernatural things existed, fear of leaving this world for the next, anger and guilt for being too curious, and longing for my grandfather.

I've watched many anime and read several manga about similar situations, so I can calmly think of a few possibilities for what's to come.

The first possibility can be ruled out—I won't die from the fall (Come on, Lucia, I've been falling for over 40 minutes). Ruled out for obvious reasons, since I practically experienced a supernatural event of being pulled into a painting or whatever it was. There's no way or reason I'd die right after—that's against the plot of a story like this.

The second possibility is that this is some kind of isekai, reincarnation, or passage to the afterlife. The chances of me having died without realizing it are pretty high, considering my life as a rich girl wasn't exactly healthy (I didn't get sunlight, drank little water, and only had soda).

The third possibility is more logical and common to think about: what if I'm just asleep? I fell asleep or passed out, and I'll only know when I wake up. But before anything, I should open my eyes and maybe see what's in store for me.

Gradually, I lost my fear, and more than fear, I was cold. Soon, I forgot everything I had thought, because the sky I saw while falling was vast and beautiful, its clouds and blue color dissipating over the horizon. Unfortunately, I was falling headfirst, and it wasn't very comfortable not knowing how far this would go. I'd only find out when I hit the ground… and when I least expected it, I fell into a deep lake.

— Glub, glub — That was the sound of me drowning, since I didn't know how to swim and was about to lose consciousness.

A sudden voice echoed in my mind as I gave up struggling in the dark, dense waters of the lake. Strangely, the voice didn't sound deep or high, male or female—it was just instructions for something I didn't understand:

— The Lord has brought you here to care for this creature. The world is no longer the same as the one you were born into, and because of this being's prayers, you are his blessing. The book in your pocket will never leave you, and you must follow the instructions it gives if you wish to guide your future toward a brighter path, alongside the creature. — Suddenly, like birds ceasing their songs, all sound went silent. I felt my body being pulled and dragged, and the strangest thing was that even though I tried to open my eyes, the only thing I could see was a small hand holding a book in its palm. I could vividly feel the texture of its cover with my fingers…

Strangely, my body felt light all of a sudden. I believe someone pulled me out of the lake, so I should thank them properly when I wake up. But is it infamous of me to say I'd be scared if the person who pulled me out was the owner of those glowing red eyes watching me from behind the trees?