Chapter 5: A Girl With No Past
I woke with a gasp,
My hand fleed to my chest, pressing hard, as if my heart might break out of my ribs. Sweat clings to my skin.
My throat felt tight, dry, almost painful
The room is still dark, except for a thin line of morning light slipped under the curtain.
Same nightmare,
Same faceless woman calling my name.
I sat up slowly. My blanket slide off my legs and tangled around my ankles,my breath trembled as I tried to steady it.
"You're fine," I whispered
"Just a dream."
But it never feels like just a dream,Not once.
I rubbed my forehead,the images came back in flashes,the burning light, the cracked wood, the warm hand that pulled me through smoke.
And always that same voice whispering something I barely heard clearly.
I pushed out a shaky breath and swung my legs off the bed.
My small apartment felt quiet, too quiet. The early morning chill clings to the air, brushing against my bare feet as I walked toward the sink.
I turned the tap on and splashed cold water on my face.
The mirror stared back at me,
Age twenty-two,
A young woman,
Brown eyes that always looked a little tired, and soft curls framing my face.
People say I look gentle,maybe even warm.
But I never feel warm inside,not really.
I don't know where I came from, who I was before the fire, or the people who saved me.
My memories before age ten are a blank wall,
A clean page with no story on it,
Only nightmares fill the space.
I dried my face with a towel and walked toward my tiny living room. My art supplies sat scattered on the table,half-used tubes of paint, brushes I should've cleaned last night, a canvas I haven't touched in days.
I stood in front of the canvas,
The painting is… wrong
It isn't finished, but that isn't the problem. I painted a girl standing in front of a blurry doorway.
The edges are smudged,the colors are dull and the brushstrokes feel confused.
It doesn't feel like me, I touched the corner of the canvas gently.
"I don't even know who I'm painting anymore," I murmured
Art is the only thing I'm sure of, the only thing, that feels like mine.
But even that has been acting strange lately.
I started painting to survive,to pay rent, buy food, keep going. People online do call me a "paycheck painter." I don't argue.
I paint what people pay for,
Portraits,
Birthday gifts,
Pretty flowers,
Colorful pets and some personal piece.
But sometimes my hands moved on their own, sometimes I see things no one showed me.
Sometimes I paint details I don't remember learning.
Like I lived a whole other life,
I sighed and picked up a brush,then froze.
My phone buzzed,I walked over and checked the screen
A new email.
I tap it open,
The message is plain, short, direct:
"Your work caught the attention of someone who understands what you can do, and there is a commission waiting for you,
A meaningful one
A private client
If interested, reply."
I blinked slowly.
I get a few commission requests here and there, but never something like this.
Private clients are usually picky, controlling, and rich enough to demand anything. I normally stay away from them.
But rent is late,
My fridge is almost empty,
And I'm tired of painting birthday balloons for strangers.
Still something about the message bothered me.
"Someone who understands what you can do."
How could a stranger understand me when I barely understand myself?
Reality makes the decision for me
I typed in a simple reply:
"I'm interested, Please send details.
Eva."
I hit send, closed the phone, and sinked into my couch.
My heart still felt heavy from the nightmare,
I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to clear my head but another image flashed.
A small girl crying in the dark,
Reaching toward someone.
My eyes snapped open,
I grabbed my sketchbook and started drawing quickly, almost frantically,
My hands moved as if they recognized what my mind refused to remember.
Dark lines,
Soft curves,
A child's outline,
A woman's silhouette behind her,
Light falling from somewhere I can't see.
The sketch forms itself,
Piece by piece,
Memory by memory.
When I stopped, I stared at the page.
The child looked like me
Or at least like the girl I imagine I used to be.
"Who are you?" I whispered to the little face in the sketch.
My phone buzzed again,
I click it open,
Location: Paint Prime
Time: 10 a.m. tomorrow
Purpose: Evaluate painting skills for a private restoration project
Client: L. Thorne Group (Executive Office)
Compensation: Generous, depending on skill level.
I stare at the screen
"Paint Prime"
One amongst the biggest corporate towers in the city,
Way out of my league.
"Why me?" I whispered
My hands tremble slightly,
Not in fear,
In recognition.
As if I have walked those halls before and as if the place is connected to something buried inside me.
I shook my head quickly
"You're just tired," I told myself
I put the phone down again and walked to my wardrobe,
I have nothing fanciful, just simple clothes, clean shirts, comfortable jeans.
I picked one and lay it on the bed,
Change my mind,
Picked another,
Change my mind again.
I didn't know why I cared so much,
It's just a meeting with strangers for a job I shouldn't be nervous about.
So why does it feel like my whole life is shifting toward something?
I closed my eyes for a second.
Another flash,
A hand holding mine,
Pulling me through smoke,
A woman whispering my name
But the name always fades before I hear it clearly.
I sat back down at my desk and opyen my sketchbook again.
My fingers hovered over the page,
I felt a pull I can't explain.
I started drawing again,
This time the result scared me,
Not because it's frightening,
but because it's familiar.
Two children,
Sitting beneath soft light,
Unfinished,
Faceless,
Fragile.
I've never drawn this before,
Never seen this scene.
Yet it felt… known,
Deeply known.
My hand trembled.
"Why do I know this?" I said
I stared at the sketch for a long.
I looked around my small apartment, everything felt smaller now, tighter
As if the walls are closing and as if the world outside is pulling me forward without permission.
For years, I tried to build a life with no past,
I tried to recall my childhood memories.
Now something is calling me,
Something I don't understand,
I walked back to my bed, lay down slowly, and stared at the ceiling.
My heartbeat slowed,my eyes drifted half-closed.
And deep inside me, a quiet truth stired.
Tomorrow will change everything
Whether I'm ready or not.