🫦🖤 ___________________________________ #wallpaper Miya was known as the quiet girl in her class, always sketching in her notebook during breaks. While others gossiped or played games, she preferred to sit alone, creating intricate drawings that seemed to capture emotions words couldn’t express. The old art room at the back of the school was her sanctuary. Though it was no longer in use, Miya had discovered it early in her first year and claimed it as her own. The room was filled with forgotten easels, broken paintbrushes, and canvases coated in dust. Despite its neglected state, it had a certain charm. The large window let in soft, golden sunlight, and the scent of aged wood and dried paint made Miya feel at home. But there was one thing about the art room that always unsettled her. On the farthest wall, behind a stack of unused canvases, hung a painting that didn’t seem to belong. Unlike the other works left behind by students, this painting was vivid, almost lifelike. It depicted a girl sitting by a window, her face turned away, gazing at a stormy sky. Her school uniform was identical to Miya’s, but her features were indistinct, as if the artist had left her unfinished. Miya often found herself drawn to the painting, staring at it as if it held a secret. One day, as she adjusted her easel near the window, she noticed something strange. The painting’s canvas was clean when she had last seen it. But now, there was a faint smudge, as though someone had tried to add to it. She brushed it off as her imagination, but over the following days, more changes appeared. A lock of hair, a faint outline of a hand, and even the curve of a mouth began to form. Miya was certain no one else had been in the room, and the realization sent a chill down her spine. Determined to uncover the truth, Miya stayed late after school one evening. The art room felt different as the sun set, its shadows longer, the silence heavier. She stared at the painting, her heart racing. “Who are you?” she whispered, the words barely audible. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Then, faintly, she heard it—a voice, soft and melancholic. “Do you see me?” Miya turned sharply, her eyes scanning the room. She was alone. But when she looked back at the painting, the girl’s face had changed. It was clearer now, her eyes wide with longing. “I don’t understand,” Miya said, stepping closer. “Are you… alive?” The voice replied, echoing as though it came from deep within the walls. “I was. But no one finished my story. No one remembers me.” Miya’s hand trembled as she reached out to touch the canvas. It was cold, yet she felt a pulse of energy beneath her fingertips. “What do you want me to do?” “Complete me,” the voice whispered. The next day, Miya brought her paints to the art room. She studied the unfinished girl in the painting, feeling an odd connection to her. Slowly, she began to add details—the soft waves of her hair, the delicate curve of her fingers, the emotion in her eyes. As she painted, it felt less like she was creating and more like she was uncovering something that had always been there. Each day, the girl in the painting grew more vibrant, more alive. And each day, Miya felt the presence in the room grow warmer, less sorrowful. Finally, Miya painted the last detail: the girl’s smile. It was small, almost imperceptible, but it transformed the entire piece. As Miya stepped back to admire her work, the room filled with a soft glow. “Miya,” the voice said, now clearer and filled with gratitude. Miya turned to see the girl from the painting standing before her. She was no longer a faint whisper or a shadow. She was whole, her presence radiant. “Thank you,” the girl said. “You’ve given me life again. I was forgotten, trapped in a story left unfinished. But you saw me. You gave me an ending.”. - @animewarts0505