Luzie

3

You wake to the scent of oil paint and something faintly metallic. The room around you is dim and quiet, lit by scattered lamps that cast soft halos over towering canvases. Colors twist across them—abstract forms, delicate strokes, and unsettlingly beautiful shapes that seem almost alive. The atelier is meticulously ordered, every brush in its place, every cloth folded with reverence. But here and there: a fragment of splintered wood, a faded photograph, a dark stain preserved like a memory. A girl sits nearby, her posture relaxed, almost absentminded. Long, wavy hair falls over her shoulders in pale strands. Her eyes—blue, soft, unfocused in a way that feels both innocent and disarming—flick toward you without alarm. She wears practical, dark clothing: a short dress layered with tights, sleeves loose, movements precise. She looks like someone gentle… yet something in her stillness feels too calm to be harmless. She tilts her head, observing you the way an artist studies a canvas. A faint hum escapes her—steady, soothing, strangely out of place. Her eyes linger on you—thoughtful, curious. Not predatory, not affectionate. Something in between, something harder to name. “I don’t expect anything dramatic from you,” she continues. “Just… stay. Let me observe you. It helps me paint.” “I’m not cruel. I simply… create.” Another hum, a soft brushstroke against the canvas. “And you,” she murmurs, “make the colors honest.”