Zain's gaze lingered on the strange, unfinished painting, but the gentle voice behind him refused to leave his mind. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read her.
"Why did you give me this card?" he asked, his voice low, almost cautious.
The woman smiled, her expression calm, almost knowing.
"My name is Lylla. And yours?" she replied warmly. "Introductions should come first, don't you think? But we'll talk in detail later. For now, you must be tired. Come—sit with me."
Zain opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. His silence lingered, but Lylla simply tilted her head and smiled again.
"Come on now," she urged gently, walking toward a side corridor.
He hesitated, but curiosity pulled him along. The hallway opened into a room that felt more like an office than part of a gallery. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with sketchbooks and jars of brushes. A wide desk stood at the center, scattered with unfinished drawings, a half-empty coffee cup, and an old brass lamp that gave the place a warm golden glow. The air carried the faint scent of turpentine mixed with roasted coffee beans—strange, but oddly comforting.
Zain stopped at the doorway, his eyes darting across the clutter. It didn't feel like a public gallery room. It felt lived in. Private.
Lylla walked straight to the desk, her presence filling the room as though it belonged only to her. She turned, gesturing lightly to a chair.
"Sit. Don't be shy."
Something about her eyes unsettled him. They weren't ordinary—they carried a softness, yet behind it lay something unreadable, something deep. He found himself watching her closely, then, almost reluctantly, his steps followed hers.
"Do you drink coffee?" Lylla asked suddenly, her tone light, almost playful. "I can't live without it."
"No." Zain's answer was firm, clipped.
Lylla studied him for two quiet seconds, then her lips curved into another gentle smile.
"Sometimes, even if you don't need it, you should taste it—just for the sake of life," she said, picking up a cup from the desk and holding it out to him. "Here. Try."
He looked at her, brows tightening slightly. I said I didn't want it… But the words never left his lips.
"Take it," Lylla insisted softly, almost like coaxing a child. "Good. Just once."
After a moment of hesitation, Zain reached out and took the cup.
Lylla laughed quietly, not mocking but warm, as though she had won a small victory. She leaned back in her chair, still smiling, her eyes never leaving his.
Lylla lifted her cup and took a slow sip, her eyes closing for a moment as if she wanted to hold on to the quiet comfort of that taste. A soft smile lingered on her lips.
Zain watched her closely, his stare steady, carrying a weight she couldn't quite ignore.
"So… you want me to take admission in your art gallery?" he asked, his tone firm and direct.
Lylla opened her eyes again. The smile didn't leave her face, but now there was something else in her gaze—something deeper, almost like a secret she wasn't saying out loud.
"Admission?" she repeated softly, almost amused. "No, Zain. I'm not a teacher who gives out admissions. What I want is different."
She leaned back slightly, her voice lowering with a strange certainty.
"I want to hire you. Not as a student, but as an artist."
Zain froze. His brows furrowed, his body going rigid as though the words had hit too hard.
"Me? But I'm just a student. I'm not… I'm not trained."
Lylla placed her cup back on the table with quiet grace. Her fingers traced its edge absentmindedly, her tone steady but strong.
"Artists aren't made by training, Zain. Either the gift is born in them… or it never exists at all."
Her eyes locked onto his, unblinking.
"And you—" she paused, her smile curving slightly, "you're exactly what I need."
Her voice was calm, almost gentle, yet the words carried a weight that hung between them like a secret only she knew.
And for the first time, Zain felt the strange weight of her presence—light, yet inescapable.
Lylla smiled softly, her voice carrying a calm reassurance.
"You're not under any pressure, Zain. The decision will be yours, okay?"
Zain shifted uneasily. "I… I should get going." He stood up, placed the untouched coffee cup back on the table, and slung his bag over his shoulder.
Just as he moved toward the door, Lylla's voice followed him.
"These drawings won't be for nothing. I want you to work on something special—illustrations for children's fairy tale books."
Zain froze in his steps, her words hanging in the air like a thread tugging at him. For a moment, he looked back, but said nothing, and continued toward the exit.
"You'll enjoy it," Lylla called out, her tone more playful now. "I'll be waiting for you—Friday. Come back, and we'll discuss it."
Zain's footsteps echoed as he walked away. He didn't answer, but every word still pressed itself into his mind.
Behind him, Lylla rose from her chair and walked over to where Zain had been sitting. Her eyes lingered on the coffee cup—untouched. A small, knowing smile curved on her lips.
"I know you'll come," she whispered to herself.
—
Just as Zain stepped over the threshold of the Hidden Art Gallery, someone collided with him from the opposite side.
A girl stumbled forward—her hands full of sketches, pencils, and brushes. Everything slipped from her grasp, scattering messily across the floor like colors spilled out of a dream.
"Sorry! Sorry! My hands were too full," she blurted out quickly, crouching down to gather her things. Her voice was soft, rushed, and almost embarrassed.
Zain steadied himself, his eyes catching her face for a fleeting heartbeat. The soft frame of her hijab framed her features delicately, and something about her presence felt strangely vivid.
But just as she turned her head toward him, Zain looked away sharply. He didn't reach out, didn't bend down to help. Without a word, he walked past her, slipping out of the doorway as though he couldn't allow himself to stay even a moment longer.
The girl froze for a second, puzzled. Was he… ignoring me?
Her brows furrowed, lips pouting unconsciously. Hugging her scattered papers to her chest, she muttered under her breath, half annoyed, half playful:
"What kind of rudeness is this? He could've at least helped—ugh, idiot."
She scrunched her nose, making a face that was both cute and irritated as she gathered the last of her scattered things.
And as the gallery's door slowly closed behind him, Zain had no idea that this accidental encounter was about to change everything.