Aurora Hale never painted people.
Landscapes, abstracts, still life—those were safe. But portraits? She avoided them like a curse. Because every time she painted a face, something terrible happened.
She learned this the hard way when she was ten. The day she painted her grandmother's face was the day the old woman collapsed. The paramedics said it was a stroke. Aurora knew better.
So she made a rule: No faces. No destinies. No fate.
Yet tonight, as she stood before her easel, she could feel something shifting in the air. A pull. An invisible thread tightening around her fingers. She wasn't supposed to paint, yet here she was, her brush gliding over the canvas, obeying an unseen force.
Bold strokes. Deep shadows. A man's face slowly took shape under her trembling fingers.
Sharp jawline. Haunted eyes. A scar just above his brow.
Aurora swallowed hard. She didn't know this man. But somehow, the painting did.
The more she painted, the heavier the air became. Her small art studio, once warm and safe, now felt like it was holding its breath. The scent of fresh paint mixed with something ancient, something that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
A gust of wind rattled the window, even though it was tightly shut. The candlelight flickered, elongating shadows across the room. And in the silence, she swore she heard a whisper.
"Find him."
Aurora's brush slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor. She stumbled back, pressing a hand against her racing heart.
This wasn't normal.
This wasn't supposed to happen again.
She turned away from the painting, rubbing her arms to shake off the sudden chill. Maybe she was just tired. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. That had to be it.
Her phone buzzed on the desk, snapping her out of her daze. Frowning, she reached for it. The number was unknown.
Unknown: Who are you?
Her breath caught.
Before she could type a response, another message came in.
Unknown: Why did you paint me?
Aurora's heart pounded against her ribs. Her gaze flickered back to the canvas. The paint was still drying.
But the eyes staring back at her?
They looked alive.
She gripped her phone, fingers trembling. Who was this man? How did he know about the painting? She had told no one about it. Hadn't even meant to create it.
A knock at the door made her jump. Her breath hitched. It was late. No one ever came to her apartment at this hour.
Slowly, she moved toward the door, every step heavy with hesitation. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she pressed her eye to the peephole.
A man stood on the other side.
The same man from her painting.
Aurora staggered back, dropping her phone. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Miss Hale?" His voice was deep, smooth, but laced with something unreadable. "I need to talk to you."
Aurora's mind raced. How was this possible? Had she seen him somewhere before? But she knew, deep in her bones, that wasn't it.
The universe had drawn his face through her hands. And now, he was here.
Her fingers hovered over the doorknob, torn between fear and an undeniable pull toward fate.
One question haunted her as she hesitated—
Had she painted him into her life… or had fate sent him to her?