It was a quiet morning, the kind that felt like a stretched-out yawn—gray, slow, and vaguely sad. The city skyline outside the fogged-up window blinked with sleepy office lights, but Lior paid them no mind. He stood barefoot in his tiny studio apartment, brush in hand, golden eyes half-lidded as he stared at the blank canvas in front of him.
His pale fingers trembled slightly as they dipped into the blues and blacks, blending them into shadows. He wasn't painting for a client today. No commissions, no flowers or storefront signs. This was different. This was the kind of painting that itched in his bones until it bled out.
The boy again.
Silver-eyed. Raven-haired. Pale and proud and lonely.
Lior didn't know who he was or why he couldn't stop painting him. For years now, the same figure had shown up in dreamscapes, in twisted architecture, in empty fields. Always watching, always waiting.
He began with the eyes—cold silver, like frost just before sunrise. Then the lips, parted slightly like he was about to speak but had no words. Lior painted quickly, with an urgency he couldn't explain. It felt like something inside him needed this boy to exist.
By noon, the figure stood finished on the canvas. A young man in a long, dark coat, his silver eyes staring straight at Lior. A small smile curved his lips. It wasn't warm. It wasn't cruel either. Just—knowing.
Lior shivered.
"I need coffee," he muttered and stepped away.
He didn't see the silver in the boy's eyes flicker.
---
The wind outside had picked up, howling faintly through the apartment vents. Lior stirred sugar into his mug and leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes distant.
He was used to being alone. It was safer this way.
Ever since his childhood, strange things happened around him. A painting of rain would summon a storm. A portrait of a dog would bring a stray barking at the door. He'd thought it was coincidence, but after the fifth "coincidence" burned down a storage shed he'd painted for fun, his parents had sent him away.
"Cursed," they'd called him.
He didn't blame them.
He sipped his coffee in silence.
Then a sound made him freeze.
A knock. Sharp. Solid.
He rarely had visitors. Never, in fact. He moved toward the door cautiously, heart tapping too fast.
Another knock.
He peeked through the peephole.
Empty.
He opened the door slowly, cautiously. The hallway was silent. But there—a shadow. Just at the edge of the stairs. A flicker of black coat vanishing from sight.
Lior closed the door quickly and locked it. Twice.
When he turned back, his heart nearly stopped.
Someone was standing in front of the painting.
Tall. Broad. Dressed in black.
The boy.
Lior stumbled back, dropping the coffee mug. It shattered, hot liquid splashing across the floor.
"Wh—who—"
The boy turned.
His eyes were silver. Exactly like the painting.
Exactly.
"Lior," the man said, voice low and smooth as velvet. "I've finally found you."
Lior's breath hitched.
"I—I didn't hear the door open—how did you get in?!"
"I've always been here," the man said simply. "Watching. Waiting. But today... today you called me."
"I didn't!" Lior backed toward the kitchen, hand fumbling for his phone. It wasn't there. "I don't know who you are!"
"I'm yours," the man said.
He took a step closer. Then another.
And suddenly, he was in front of Lior, impossibly fast. His hand reached out—not to hurt—but to touch. His fingers gently brushed Lior's cheek, reverent.
"You made me."
"I—what?"
"You painted me. Over and over. Until I became real."
"That's not—that's not how it works. That's not real."
"It is," he whispered. "Because of you."
Lior tried to push him away, but the man caught his wrists gently, firmly.
"You're scared. I understand. But I won't hurt you."
"You broke into my house!" Lior hissed.
"I didn't. You summoned me."
The man released him. Took a step back. Looked almost… sad.
"I waited centuries for someone to see me. To remember me. You did. I can't leave now, Lior."
"This isn't a game," Lior said, voice trembling. "You're not real."
"Touch me."
Lior hesitated.
"Touch me. And tell me I'm not real."
His hand moved involuntarily. Fingers brushing against the man's chest. Warm. Steady heartbeat. He was solid. Alive.
Lior swallowed.
"…Who are you?"
"My name was lost long ago. But if you wish, you can name me."
"That's insane."
The man smiled again. That same slight curve of lips.
"I like when you paint me smiling. I never knew I could smile."
Lior stumbled back and sat on the floor. His knees gave out. The stranger—the impossibility—followed slowly, kneeling in front of him.
"I won't force you to believe me. But I'll never leave you. Not now."
Lior stared into those silver eyes.
Not cruel. Not cold.
Just… alone.
Just like him.
And somehow, that scared him more than anything.