That night, Zain sat alone in his room. The diary-like manuscript lay open before him.
The words bound him more tightly than he had expected—strange and alluring, carrying a silent kind of magic that stirred his imagination. It didn't feel like he was *reading* a story, but as though the story itself was pulling him in, forcing him to become a part of it.
When he finally closed the pages, moonlight had already spread across his desk. Sleep kept its distance that night.
---
The next morning, when Zain returned to the art gallery, Lylla was waiting at the entrance—as if she had known he would come.
"Why me?" Zain asked directly, his voice calm but edged with something sharper. "Out of everyone, why did you choose me?"
Lylla tilted her head, lips curving in a faint smile.
"You'll understand once your hands begin to draw," she said softly. "Only then will you see why it had to be you."
Without another word, she guided him through a long corridor until they reached a tall wooden door. As it opened, the faint scent of paint and paper spilled out.
Inside, the room felt alive. Boys and girls sat at their places, sketching, painting, shaping ideas into form. The scratch of pencils, the sweep of brushes, the shuffle of papers—all blended into a quiet symphony of creation.
The moment Lylla clapped her hands, the room stilled. Every head turned toward the doorway—toward Zain.
"Everyone," Lylla's voice carried both warmth and authority, "the one you've been waiting for has finally arrived. This is Zain. From today, your team is complete."
A ripple of whispers spread through the group. Some looked at him curiously, others with quiet respect. Zain stood silent, unreadable, feeling the weight of their eyes on him.
Lylla's tone grew thoughtful.
"This work cannot be done by one person alone. A fairytale book requires many hands. The writer gives us words—the soul of the tale. The illustrator brings those words to life. And that's you, Zain." She cast him a deliberate look, as if reminding him of the weight now placed on his shoulders.
"Editors polish the words. Designers give the book its form. The colorist breathes emotions into the sketches, turning lines into living moments. And finally, the publisher carries it all into the world. Each of you here holds a piece of the whole. And together, you'll create something that no one alone could ever make."
Her eyes swept the room, then narrowed in mild exasperation.
"Speaking of which… where is Gulluna? Late again. That girl will never change."
As if on cue, the door creaked open. A girl slipped inside quickly, her steps light but hurried, clutching a folder tightly against her chest. A faint flush colored her cheeks, as though she had run to get there.
"There she is," Lylla said with half-annoyance, half-relief. "Keeping everyone waiting again."
The girl lifted her chin, a spark of mischief glinting in her eyes. "Better late than never," she murmured, then looked directly at Zain.
Lylla introduced them with deliberate care.
"Zain—this is Gulluna. She is your colorist. But not just someone who fills in shades. Gulluna paints with emotions. Where you draw lines, she gives them breath. In her hands, red will never just be red—it will become love, or anger, or danger. Blue will never just be blue—it will become silence, sorrow, or infinity. She sees what others cannot."
A faint smile touched Gulluna's lips—half shy, half knowing—as her gaze lingered on Zain.
"That is why," Lylla finished gently, "she is irreplaceable."
The room fell into a new silence—one charged with curiosity and something unspoken.
And in that moment, Zain finally looked at Gulluna. The instant his eyes met hers, something inside him froze. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to stop. *This girl…* he thought. *That same face. That same reckless spark.*
A heaviness pressed against his chest. *Why is this happening to me? Why can't my eyes—or my heart—endure her presence?*
On the other side, Gulluna had already recognized him too. Her glance shifted briefly toward Lylla, a silent message in her eyes: *This is the same boy… that idiot who ran into me and disappeared without even offering help.*
In that single moment, a hidden tension surfaced between them—a clash of memory, annoyance, and something deeper neither of them was ready to admit.
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