Arghhhhhh!
Her scream ripped out of her throat, raw and helpless.
The painting wasn't a painting anymore, it opened like a hole in the world, pulling her in with a force she couldn't fight. Colors lashed around her, searing her skin, slicing through her breath. Her mind spun, her heart slammed against her chest, and she clawed at the air, desperate for something or anything to hold onto.
What—what's happening?!
Her thoughts spiraled as the world bent and broke around her. Colors peeled from the canvas, wrapping around her arms like tightening ropes. They were alive and tugging at her, cold and warm at the same time. She tried to pull away, but there was nothing to grab onto. Her legs began to dissolve into streaks of blinding light , stretching and thinning in ways that made her stomach lurch.
No. No. No—this isn't real… this can't be real…
The pull grew stronger. Panic surged through her chest, sharp and choking. Her lungs burned, her head spun. Stop—please—! Her voice cracked, but even the scream was swallowed, absorbed by the shifting colors that coiled around her like chains.
The colors twisted tighter, pulling her in until she was nothing but light and paint. She tried to resist. Tried to grab onto something, anything. But there was nothing. Her mind raced, memories flashing like shards of glass. Her mother's smile, her first painting, the gallery she had loved and lost, all slipping away as if they never existed.
Her vision blurred into rays of shimmering light . The world melted. Her body, her hands and everything felt like it was vanishing. She felt herself folding inward into darkness
And then she was gone.
⸻
Soleil had always believed art could fix everything.
Painting made the world lighter. It helped her when nothing else did. Her first brush had been a gift from her mother. Her first finished painting was a promise to make something beautiful out of everything that hurt.
But beauty didn't pay rent. It didn't stop her gallery from shutting down. It didn't make people answer her emails or check in when she stopped showing up. It didn't heal the deep, persistent exhaustion she felt every day.
Now, even her paintings looked dull.
She sat on the edge of her small couch, knees pulled to her chest. The dim light from her desk lamp cast long shadows across the room. Outside, rain tapped on the windows. Thunder rumbled far away.
Around her, unfinished canvases leaned against the walls. Some were barely started. Others had been abandoned halfway through. She hadn't picked up a brush in months.
She had tried to quit. Got a regular job. Smiled at customers. Paid her bills. Pretended to be okay. But her hands always ached to create. Every night, she ignored that urge until tonight.
There was one painting left.
It stood on her easel, half-finished and a little eerie. The image unsettled her—not because of what it showed, but because of how it made her feel. Like it was waiting for her.
She stood up slowly. Bare feet cold against the wooden floor.
The painting showed a faceless figure in a white cloak standing beneath a cracked sky. One hand was raised, the other holding something—maybe a brush, maybe a staff. The clouds behind it swirled unnaturally. Something about it felt… strange. Powerful. Broken.
She didn't remember painting it. And yet her fingers twitched to complete it.
Her old brush sat nearby. Bristles stiff and handle worn smooth from years of use. She dipped it into her favorite color—a deep, rich violet color she once called soulshade.
This would be her last painting.
"Just let me finish," she whispered. "Just once. Then I'm done."
The moment the brush touched the canvas, it shimmered. The figure's head shifted slightly, like it turned toward her. The sky rippled outward like water. The colors peeled from the painting and wrapped around her, a blinding radiant light , warm and alive.
She couldn't move. The air pressed in. Her vision blurred. Every heartbeat thundered in her ears. It felt like the room itself had melted into the canvas and she was sinking into it.
The colors pulsed around her, tugging at her very essence. She clawed at the air, at the floor, at the edges of reality itself, but there was nothing to hold onto. Her arms, legs, even her hair felt unreal.
She felt her mind stretch thin, her memories slipping. Faces, names, moments from her life—gone. What this real? What was happening ? The sensation was maddening.
She tried to scream again. Only silence answered.
Her chest heaved. Her fingers twitched, brushing against streaks of light that seemed to burn and comfort at once. Her whole being ached with loss and wonder—terrifying and intoxicating. The flash of light engulfed her completely, the last thing she felt was the pull, dragging her deeper and deeper into darkness.