The first time Celeste touched a canvas, it was as if the world had stilled around her.
Amelia watched from across the room, pretending to be busy organizing her paint tubes, but in truth, she couldn't look away. Celeste stood before a blank canvas, her fingers ghosting over the surface as if she could feel something beneath the white.
"You're staring," Celeste murmured without turning around.
Amelia flushed, quickly looking down at the paint tubes in her hand. "I'm just… wondering what you're thinking."
Celeste finally turned, her soft gaze meeting Amelia's. "I think I want to try."
Amelia's breath caught. "Try?"
Celeste glanced back at the canvas. "Painting."
A strange mix of excitement and nervousness twisted in Amelia's chest. It shouldn't have surprised her—Celeste was born from paint and color, after all—but the idea of Celeste holding a brush, of her creating something from her own mind rather than Amelia's, felt… significant.
Amelia hesitated, then crossed the room, placing a brush in Celeste's outstretched hand. Their fingers brushed, and as always, that strange warmth spread through Amelia's skin, like an echo of something she couldn't name.
Celeste examined the brush with quiet curiosity, then dipped it into a jar of deep blue paint.
The first stroke she placed on the canvas was hesitant—uncertain. But then she made another. And another. And slowly, something began to take shape.
Amelia couldn't look away.
She had always believed painting was an extension of emotion—a way to translate feelings into something tangible. But Celeste had never painted before. She had no years of practice, no technique. And yet…
The strokes were delicate but deliberate. A sky began to form—deep indigo melting into softer shades of blue, like the first breath of morning before the sun fully arrived.
Amelia sat down on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, watching as Celeste painted. Time passed in a way that felt suspended—like the world outside didn't exist. The gentle scrapes of the brush against canvas, the occasional sound of paint mixing in a glass jar, and Celeste's slow, steady breathing were the only things that filled the silence.
Celeste didn't hesitate anymore. The longer she painted, the more certain she became. The night sky stretched across the canvas, scattered with delicate stars that shimmered as if they had been pulled from the heavens themselves.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Celeste took a step back. Her eyes softened, a quiet kind of awe settling over her.
"I think I like this," she murmured.
Amelia swallowed, her throat tight. "It's beautiful."
Celeste turned to face her, the corners of her lips tilting up in a small, pleased smile. "It feels familiar."
Amelia frowned slightly. "Familiar?"
Celeste's fingers tightened slightly around the paintbrush. "I don't think I came from nothing."
A shiver ran down Amelia's spine. She sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
Celeste turned back to the painting, her gaze thoughtful. "I mean… I know you created me. But I don't think I was just made the moment I stepped out of the canvas. There's something… more."
Amelia stared at her, a strange weight settling in her chest.
Celeste tilted her head, studying the sky she had painted. "Sometimes, I feel like I remember things. Not in a clear way, but in pieces. Like a dream you forget the moment you wake up, but the feeling of it lingers."
Amelia's fingers curled around the fabric of her sweater. "What kind of things?"
Celeste hesitated. "A girl laughing in the rain. A hand holding mine. The scent of something warm—maybe cinnamon?" Her eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, softer, almost hesitant, she added, "And sometimes… I remember you."
Amelia's breath hitched. "Me?"
Celeste nodded slowly. "But I don't know when or where." Amelia felt a sharp pull in her chest, like the moment before a storm breaks.
She had been so certain that Celeste was something entirely new—something created from her own longing. But now, a terrifying thought crept into her mind.
What if Celeste hadn't just stepped out of the painting that night?
What if she had come back?
The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with something unspoken. Celeste turned her gaze back to the painting, running her fingers over the dried brushstrokes as if searching for answers in the color itself.
A cold realization settled over Amelia.
If Celeste remembered pieces of something—someone—then who had she been before?