Celeste sat on the subway, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. The train rumbled beneath them, the fluorescent lights above casting a pale glow over Amelia's face as she scrolled through her phone, searching for the address.
It had been two days since Amelia suggested they visit the art restorer—two days of Celeste watching the crack on her wrist grow ever so slightly, its delicate, shimmering fracture weaving up toward her palm like a spider's web.
She had stopped trying to convince herself it was nothing.
She wasn't sure what scared her more—the thought that she really was breaking, or the thought that they wouldn't be able to stop it.
The subway screeched to a halt. Amelia nudged her. "This is our stop."
Celeste stood, pulling the sleeves of her coat over her hands to hide the crack, as if that would somehow keep it from growing any further. She followed Amelia off the train, stepping into the cool evening air. The station was old, the tiles on the walls chipped and faded, and the tunnel smelled of damp concrete and city life.
"Are you sure about this?" Celeste asked as they made their way up the stairs, the city unfolding before them.
Amelia nodded, though she looked tense. "If there's a chance she can help, we have to take it."
Celeste sighed, adjusting her coat as they started walking toward their destination. She wasn't sure what she had expected when Amelia mentioned an art restorer, but the neighborhood they were in didn't seem like the kind of place where you'd find one. The streets were lined with old brick buildings, small boutiques, and cafés that had probably been there for decades.
Then, finally, they stopped in front of a shop.
It was small, nestled between a bookstore and a bakery, the kind of place most people would walk right past without a second glance. The sign above the door read:
Irene Moreau - Art Restoration & Preservation.
Amelia hesitated for just a moment before pushing the door open. A small bell jingled above them.
The scent of oil paint, aged paper, and something faintly floral filled the air. The walls were lined with paintings, some of them cracked and faded, others pristine and untouched. Canvases leaned against wooden shelves, waiting to be repaired. The shop had a quiet, almost sacred feel to it, as if time moved differently inside.
"Give me a moment," a voice called from the back.
Celeste swallowed, glancing at Amelia, who gave her a reassuring nod.
Footsteps approached, and then a woman stepped into view.
She was older, maybe in her late fifties, with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a loose bun. Her sharp brown eyes flickered between the two of them, assessing, before she wiped her hands on a cloth and set aside the brush she had been holding.
"You don't look like the usual clients," she said, raising a brow.
Amelia cleared her throat. "We're… looking for help."
Irene studied them both for a moment before motioning toward the back of the shop. "Come with me."
Celeste followed, her pulse quickening.
They were led into a small studio, the walls covered in half-restored paintings. A single workbench sat in the center, covered in tools, brushes, and fragments of old canvas. A single lamp illuminated the space, casting long shadows against the walls.
Irene leaned against the workbench, crossing her arms. "So, what is it? A family heirloom? A water-damaged piece?"
Amelia exhaled. "It's… more complicated than that."
Irene tilted her head. "Complicated how?"
Celeste hesitated, then slowly pulled back the sleeve of her coat.
For a long moment, there was silence.
Irene's eyes locked onto the crack running along Celeste's wrist, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she stepped forward, taking Celeste's hand in her own.
She turned it slightly, examining the fracture with careful precision.
"This isn't paint," she murmured. "It's not a scar either."
Celeste's mouth felt dry. "Then what is it?"
Irene ran her thumb lightly over the crack, her gaze darkening.
"…Where did you come from?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Celeste's stomach twisted.
Amelia's posture tensed. "Why are you asking that?"
Irene didn't look at her. She was still staring at Celeste, her fingers lingering over the crack.
"Because I've seen something like this before," she said. "And if I'm right… you don't have much time."
Celeste felt the air rush from her lungs.
Amelia took a step closer. "What do you mean? What happens if we don't fix it?"
Irene finally lifted her gaze.
Her expression was grim.
"You disappear."
Celeste flinched, yanking her hand away, but Irene's grip was firm, gentle but unrelenting.
"What do you mean?" Amelia repeated, her voice sharp, urgent.
Irene released Celeste's wrist, taking a slow breath. "Years ago, I had a client bring me something similar. A painting with a crack that wouldn't stop growing. At first, it was barely noticeable, but over time, it spread, consuming the entire canvas until…"
She hesitated.
"Until what?" Celeste's voice was barely above a whisper.
Irene's eyes softened, but there was no comfort in her gaze. "Until the painting vanished. Completely. As if it had never existed."
The room felt suddenly colder.
Celeste's breath came unsteady.
"Wait—" Amelia shook her head, taking a step forward. "That's a painting. She's a person."
Irene studied Celeste carefully, her fingers tapping lightly against the workbench. "And yet," she said, "she's cracking."
Celeste's fingers curled into fists at her sides. The weight of the words pressed against her, made it hard to breathe.
"So how do we stop it?" Amelia demanded.
Irene sighed, rubbing her temple. "Magic is a fickle thing. If she was summoned, as you say, then something tethered her here. Something brought her into this world."
Celeste swallowed. "My painting."
Irene's gaze sharpened. "Your painting?"
Celeste nodded, explaining, "Before I… existed, Amelia painted me. Every detail. She made me real."
Irene was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, she asked, "And where is that painting now?"
Celeste blinked.
Her stomach dropped.
The painting. The original canvas.
It was gone.
Disappeared from Amelia's apartment weeks ago—just before the cracks started appearing.
Amelia stiffened, realization dawning on her. "Celeste… you don't think—"
"It has to be connected," Celeste said, her voice tight. "If the painting is destroyed, then maybe—"
Irene nodded gravely. "Then you'll unravel with it."
Celeste's heart pounded.
Amelia's face was pale, her grip tightening into a fist. "Then we need to find it."
Irene hesitated. "If it's already lost—"
"No." Amelia's voice was fierce. "We find it. And we fix this."
Celeste exhaled shakily, a quiet hope flickering inside her.
But deep down, beneath the hope, beneath the determination—there was fear.
Because what if they were already too late?