"Change is the nature of human beings.And if that change does not arrive with time, society begins to see us differently—or perhaps, we begin to see society differently.
Those who fail to grow with their emotions, who notice too much or feel too deeply from a young age… they become marked as different.
But what people often forget is this: not every change is written on the face or revealed in clothes.
The truest transformations live quietly within—inside emotions, perceptions, and the way one sees the world… even if society never understands them."
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After class ended, Zain didn't return straight home.
Toronto's streets stretched endlessly around him, but his steps carried a quiet certainty. He was searching—searching for a place he hadn't yet seen, but already belonged to. An art studio, a gallery, anywhere he could breathe.
He had only recently shifted to Toronto from his aunt's house in Ottawa, and the city still felt unfamiliar—crowded yet empty, full yet hollow.
At the bus stop, Zain slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers brushed against a card.
"Hidden Art Gallery".
He stared at the words, his mind slipping back to the moment it had found him.
A week ago, at this very stop, a woman had leaned toward him. Her voice had been gentle, her eyes bright with warmth.
"Pencil in your hand… you draw well, don't you? I can see it. My own gallery exists too."
Zain had quickly shut his sketchbook, hiding the half-finished drawing from her view. He hadn't answered, hadn't even looked up. When the bus arrived, he boarded without a word. She had only watched him go, her smile unwavering.
And yet later, in his bag, he had found it. The card. Quietly placed there without his notice.
Now, here it was in his hand.
And here he was, standing at the edge of its promise.
The bus arrived. Zain climbed in, silent as always. He pressed the card between his fingers, staring at its neat black letters as the city blurred past the window.
When he finally stepped off, it stood before him—a building both ordinary and extraordinary. Its surface was plain, yet the sign glowed as if it had been waiting for his eyes alone.
*Hidden Art Gallery.*
He paused for a moment, breath tight in his chest. Calm and unease coiled together inside him. It almost felt as though the place itself was calling him forward, tugging at him with invisible strings. Then, hands deep in his pockets, he walked on.
The doors opened without resistance.
Inside, silence.
The air smelled of paint, varnish, and something else—something older, like memory itself. Zain's footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor as dim lights guided his path.
Then his eyes caught it.
An unfinished canvas.
Resting inside an open room, visible through the doorway.
He slowed, then stopped.
The painting was incomplete, but alive. Strokes of black and grey twisted like restless tides, forming the shape of deep waters. In the center floated a boy, faceless, unfinished, suspended in drowning silence. And above him—dark, undeniable—his own shadow, pulling him under.
Zain's breath faltered.
It was his dream. His nightmare. His truth.
As though the canvas had stolen it from his sleep before he could wake.
And worse—he felt as though the artist had left it unfinished for him. A brushstroke missing, a silence waiting.
He stepped closer, almost crossing into the room. His foot hovered on the polished floor when—
A voice.
"I was waiting for you."
Soft. Calm. Certain.
The words slipped through the silence like silk.
Zain froze. That voice…
"You've come to the right place."
He turned.
And there she was.
The same gentle smile. The same warmth in her eyes.
The woman from the bus stop.
She looked at him not with surprise, but as though she had always known this moment would come.