The painting sat on its easel, bathed in the soft glow of Amelia's studio lamp.
It looked the same as it always had—bold brushstrokes, warm colors blending seamlessly to bring Celeste to life. And yet, now that Celeste stood beside her, breathing, real, the painting felt different. Like a doorway she had unknowingly opened, a secret she had never meant to uncover.
Celeste stepped closer, her fingers hovering just above the dried paint. "This is where I came from."
Amelia nodded, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe. "Yeah."
Celeste let her fingers finally make contact with the surface, tracing the outline of her own painted cheek. The texture of the canvas was rough under her fingertips. She frowned. "It's… cold."
Amelia straightened. "What do you mean?"
Celeste hesitated. "I don't know. It just… doesn't feel like me anymore."
Amelia swallowed. "Because you're not just a painting now."
Celeste turned to look at her, searching Amelia's face for something. Then, she dropped her hand and took a step back. "If this is where I came from, then maybe it holds the key to keeping me here."
Amelia's stomach twisted at the memory of the words in the book. If the artist's devotion wavers… the muse will return to where they once belonged.
She had brought Celeste to life. And if she wasn't careful, she could lose her just as easily.
Celeste must have noticed her shift in expression, because she suddenly reached for Amelia's hands, lacing their fingers together. "I don't want to go back," she whispered.
Amelia looked down at their joined hands, at the way Celeste's grip tightened as if she could hold herself in place just by touching her.
"You won't," Amelia said, just as she had before.
But this time, the weight of those words settled deeper in her bones.
Because it wasn't just a promise.
It was a vow.
Celeste exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Then let's figure this out."
Amelia hesitated, then pulled her hands away just long enough to grab her sketchbook from the nearby shelf. She flipped it open to a blank page, reaching for a pencil. "Okay. If we assume that the painting is what brought you here, then maybe it's also what's tying you to this world."
Celeste tilted her head. "Like an anchor?"
"Yeah. And if that's the case, then maybe there's a way to strengthen that connection."
Celeste's gaze flickered to the blank page in front of Amelia. "How?"
Amelia tapped the end of her pencil against the paper. "By making sure you don't just belong to the painting anymore. By making sure you belong here."
Celeste's brow furrowed slightly. "I don't understand."
Amelia lifted her pencil and started to sketch. Quick, fluid strokes, creating the shape of a figure. Celeste watched in quiet fascination as Amelia's hand moved with precision, forming an image of Celeste sitting at their kitchen table, reading the book she had chosen from the shop.
Amelia didn't stop there. She turned the page and started another sketch—Celeste walking beside her down a city street, hair caught in the wind.
Then another—Celeste curled up on Amelia's couch, lost in thought.
And another—Celeste reaching for Amelia's hand.
With each drawing, Amelia's breath steadied.
With each image, she was making Celeste's existence real.
Not just as a painting.
Not just as a muse.
But as someone who belonged here, in Amelia's life.
When she finally set the pencil down, she realized Celeste had been silent the entire time.
Amelia turned to her, but Celeste wasn't looking at the sketches.
She was looking at Amelia.
Softly. With something that made Amelia's chest tighten.
"…This is how you see me," Celeste murmured.
Amelia swallowed. "Yeah."
Celeste reached out, her fingertips ghosting over the edge of the sketchbook. "Then I won't disappear."
Amelia hadn't realized how much she needed to hear those words until now.
Celeste let out a slow breath, then smiled. "Keep drawing me."
Amelia nodded.
She would.
For as long as it took.