Girl In The Painting

Lucien Mori was late. Again.

He snatched his backpack off the couch, toast clenched between his teeth, sketchpad already under one arm. Aunt Camille’s voice trailed behind him from the hallway like a threat he didn’t have time to deal with.

Camille: “If you miss the bus again, don’t expect me to write another excuse letter!”

Lucien: “Love you too!”

He bolted up the narrow attic steps, intending to grab his charcoal kit before sprinting out the door. But when he pushed open the attic door, his world tilted.

There, sitting calmly in front of the large easel, was a child.

A little girl.

She wore a dusty pink dress, the hem frayed as if it had been worn for years. Her straight white hair shimmered in the faint light from the attic window, and her violet eyes locked onto his with a curious calmness.

Lucien stared. She stared back.

Lucien: “... Hi?”

Girl: “Hi.”

Lucien: “What are you doing in my attic?”

Girl: “Waiting for you.”

Lucien: “... I don’t even know you.”

She stood, smoothed her dress, and tilted her head. Her eyes, glowing slightly, flicked toward the painting still sitting on the easel behind her.

Lucien's gaze followed, and then his stomach dropped.

The unfinished painting. It was of a forest glade, soft and otherworldly, dappled in light. And in the center, he’d recently added a little girl, still incomplete, dressed in dusty pink with white hair and pale eyes.

Exactly like the child in front of him. He turned back to her.

Lucien: “No. No, no, no. That’s not possible.”

Girl: “I came from there.”

Lucien: “Paintings don’t come to life.”

Girl: “Then I must be a special one.”

Lucien backed up until his legs hit a crate, nearly toppling it over.

Lucien: “This has to be a prank. Aunt Camille put you up to this, didn’t she?”

Girl: “Who’s Camille?”

Lucien: “My aunt. Who is absolutely going to kill me if she finds out I have a child hiding in her attic.”

The girl blinked, completely unfazed.

Girl: “I’m not hiding.”

Lucien: “You are now!”

He yanked open the old wardrobe in the corner.

Lucien: “Get in there. Now.”

Girl: “Okay!”

She cheerfully skipped into the wardrobe and sat cross-legged among old winter coats, humming to herself. Lucien shut the door, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sank to the floor.

Lucien: “What is my life right now.”

Fifteen minutes later, with Camille off at her yoga class, Lucien opened the wardrobe again. The girl was still there, counting dust bunnies.

Lucien: “You got a name?”

Girl: “Nope.”

Lucien: “Right. Of course you don’t.”

She crawled out and looked around the attic like it was a palace.

Girl: “You made this place.”

Lucien: “Technically, Aunt Camille owns it, but sure. I’m the artist.”

Girl: “Then you’re my Papa.”

Lucien: “No, no no no, stop right there. I’m 17. 17-year-olds don’t get to be papas!”

Girl: “You made me. That’s what matters.”

Lucien gave her a look of pure horror.

Lucien: “You don’t understand how disturbing that sentence is.”

The girl tilted her head again.

Girl: “You don’t look mean. You look tired.”

Lucien sighed.

Lucien: “Yeah. That’s just called ‘being in high school.’”

...

By the time the sun began to set, Lucien had half-heartedly tried to sketch the girl again, only for the pencil to keep slipping in his fingers. The real version sat eating crackers and giggling at the flickering attic light.

He watched her carefully. She breathed. She blinked. She ate snacks and hummed made-up songs.

She was real.

Somehow, impossibly, he had brought a child to life. And now he had to keep her a secret from the world. Especially from Camille.

Lucien: “Alright. Rule one: No running around the house. Rule two: No talking to strangers. Rule three: Never let Aunt Camille see you. Got it?”

The girl gave him a bright, toothy grin.

Girl: “Got it, Papa!”

Lucien: “Oh, for the love of-”

Lucien paced the attic floor, running both hands through his already messy black hair. His brain couldn't catch up. There was a small child sitting on the dusty floor eating crackers and smiling like it was a normal Tuesday. And he had painted her.

No, not just painted her, brought her to life.

He crouched in front of the girl and studied her carefully. Her violet eyes glittered with something... not entirely human. There was a spark, a flicker of light in her irises that almost looked like reflections of stars. Her white hair, though straight, shifted ever so slightly as if moved by a wind that didn’t exist in the still attic air. Her skin was porcelain-smooth, not a single blemish or scar.

She looked perfect. Too perfect.

Lucien: “You seriously don’t remember anything from before?”

Girl: “I remember... colors. A lot of green. And the feeling of your brush. It tickled.”

Lucien blinked.

Lucien: “Okay. Creepy. Got it.”

He glanced at the attic door. Camille wasn’t due back for another hour, but even still, his nerves prickled. The girl wasn’t noisy, but she had a habit of humming weird little tunes. Ethereal melodies that seemed just off-key enough to give him chills.

Lucien: “You need a name.”

She brightened.

Girl: “A name? Like yours?”

Lucien: “Yeah. People have names. Can’t just keep calling you ‘hey’ forever.”

He walked over to his sketchpad and flipped through the pages. Notes scribbled in the margins caught his attention: ideas for names he’d once considered for her character.

Lucien: “How about... Sylva? Or Noelle?”

The girl shook her head at each suggestion.

Girl: “Noooope. Doesn’t feel right.”

Lucien: “Of course it doesn’t.”

She picked up one of his graphite pencils and twirled it in her fingers expertly, like she already knew what it was. Then, with a soft voice, she whispered,

Girl: “What about... Callista?”

The name hung in the air like perfume. Lucien blinked.

Lucien: “Callista. That’s... actually really pretty.”

She grinned, proud.

Callista: “Then that’s me!”

He sighed and sat beside her on the attic floor.

Lucien: “Okay, Callista. I have no idea how you got here. But you can’t let my aunt see you. And we’re going to figure this out. Together.”

Callista: “Okay, Papa.”

Lucien: “Stop calling me that.”

Callista: “Never.”

...

That night, Lucien barely slept. He had managed to sneak Callista down to the tiny guest room in the basement, stuffing the corners with pillows and blankets. He found her a small sweater and jeans from the donation pile that almost fit.

She’d curled up on the makeshift bed and fallen asleep instantly, hugging a roll of drawing paper like a teddy bear.

Lucien, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling for hours.

His life was already hard enough. His parents were gone. He lived under his aunt’s strict rules. He barely scraped by in school. And now he was harboring a magical, possibly interdimensional child born from one of his paintings.

He rolled onto his side and muttered,

Lucien: “Why couldn’t it have been a dog.”

...

Morning light filtered through the cracked blinds, and Lucien stumbled into the kitchen to find Camille sipping coffee and reading her paper.

Camille: “You’re up early.”

Lucien: “Didn’t sleep well.”

She arched a perfectly drawn-on brow.

Camille: “Stress dreams again?”

Lucien: “Something like that.”

He grabbed cereal and pretended to be normal. Meanwhile, his ears strained to hear any sound from the basement.

Nothing.

Good girl, Callista.

Aunt Camille stood and grabbed her purse.

Camille: “I’ll be out most of the day. Art show meeting, then groceries. Don’t burn the house down.”

Lucien: “Noted.”

As soon as the door closed, Lucien sprinted to the basement.

Lucien: Whispers. “Callista!”

The door opened a crack, and she peeked through.

Callista: “Shhhh, I heard the dragon lady leave.”

He laughed before he could stop himself.

Lucien: “You are way too clever.”

She came out in the oversized sweater, sleeves dragging the floor.

Callista: “I drew something.”

She handed him a rolled-up paper. He opened it slowly. It was a drawing. Of them. Sitting together in the attic, surrounded by stars. She’d drawn it with better depth and style than half of his class could manage.

Lucien: “You... you know how to draw?”

Callista: “You made me. I have what you have.”

Lucien stared at the drawing in stunned silence. This wasn’t just imagination. She was learning. Evolving.

...

By afternoon, they had created a routine. Lucien would go to school while Callista stayed hidden. She promised to stay in the basement, and he promised to bring her back books and snacks.

But every day he came home, she had new drawings for him. And each one was a little more magical. A little more alive. A tree that shimmered in the ink. A wolf that almost seemed to breathe. A shadow that looked suspiciously like it could step off the page.

Lucien felt something brewing. Like Callista wasn’t the only thing capable of slipping from the canvas into reality.

Something else was waking up. And it might not be so friendly.

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