CHAPTER 10: Techniques She Shouldn't Know
I woke before my alarm. The sunlight slipping softly through the blinds. My mind was clearer than usual, but the weight of yesterday still lingered. Not heavy, not pressing but enough to make me pause before getting up.
I made tea, the warm aroma filling the kitchen, grounding me in the quiet morning. I set up my workspace near the window, cleaned my palette, and fresh brushes, and opened my sketchbook. I planned to warm up before starting the concept draft for Wynford. Nothing serious, just practice strokes.
I picked up my brush stroke, the moment it touched the paper, something shifted. My hand moved almost by itself, cleaner, faster, and more confident than I'd ever been. Lines curved effortlessly, shading melted seamlessly, blending without my conscious effort. I froze.
When did I learn that?
I tried again. The results were the same,perfect strokes I had never mastered. I frowned, brushing it off as adrenaline or nerves.
"Just warming up," I muttered to myself, trying to normalize the strange skill.
I swapped pencils for a brush, dipped it in thin paint, and began again. The strokes landed with a confidence I couldn't explain. The first blend was flawless. The next, precise. By the third, my hands moved with a rhythm that felt instinctual, like memory without recall.
I stepped back from the canvas, staring at it. This wasn't my style or at least not the style I recognized. It was refined, deliberate, older, practiced. It was the kind of skill that belonged to someone who had lived and breathed art for decades.
I shook my head and forced myself to stop. I couldn't overthink it. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was coincidence.
I set the brush down, wiped my hands, and left the canvas to dry. I needed air, and my shift at the bookstore would provide a grounding routine.
The streets smelled of baked bread and exhaust of damp concrete warmed by morning sun. It was normal, ordinary, and comforting.
Inside the bookstore, Mr. Jason looked up from the counter.
"Morning, Eva," he said with a smile.
"I need to talk to you," I said, stepping closer to take a sit.
His face softened immediately. "Everything alright?"
"Yes, I just… the commission I mentioned earlier might take more time, I might not always be available for every shift for a few weeks."
He nodded without hesitation. "It's fine, Focus on your work with Wynford. I'll adjust the schedule. Don't worry about it. I wish you luck!"
I felt relieved "Thank you."
He waved it off and returned to unpacking books. Simple, predictable and normal.
The walk home felt lighter, but as soon as I saw my canvas waiting for me, the unease returned. My strokes, the strange precision, the unearned skill sat on the paper like a puzzle piece I couldn't place.
I sat at my table and tried to make sense of it. Did the experience in the archive trigger something in me? Was it possible to absorb a style just from proximity? My rational mind rejected the idea, but the certainty in my hands said otherwise.
My phone buzzed. A new email.
From: Wynford Corporation
Subject: Request for Demonstration
I hesitated before opening it. My heart skipped a beat.
"Miss Sinclair,
Mr. Wynford requests that you return tomorrow morning for a brief review of your technique.
There has been an update to the commission process."
Why did he want to watch me paint?
The question weighed on me for hours as I prepared for my evening shift. Every customer interaction at the bookstore seemed to pass through a filter of distraction. I could see my hands in my mind, moving with unnatural ease across the canvas, and I couldn't shake the thought that Wynford knew more than he was saying.
After my shift, I lingered for a moment in the quiet store, organizing books in the aisles. Mr. Jason gave me a curious look, but I smiled and said nothing. The day had been long, but a strange anticipation threaded through my chest, keeping me awake far past my usual bedtime.
When sleep finally came, it was shallow and restless.
Morning arrived too soon. I dressed carefully, choosing neutral colors that wouldn't distract me from my work. I packed my brushes, pencils, and sketchbook, as I walked toward Wynford Tower.
The city seemed sharper, noisier, and more deliberate than usual. Every sound felt magnified. Every step echoed in my chest.
Inside the building, the lobby's polished floors reflected sunlight, and the hum of conversations and footsteps carried a sense of purpose. The receptionist greeted me without delay, and soon I was on the elevator going up to the twelfth floor.
"Miss Sinclair?" One of the creative team members greeted me as I stepped out of the elevator. His expression was professional but friendly. "Right this way."
I followed him past the familiar sketches and palettes. The walls were lined with panels and covered canvases, just like yesterday. Nothing had changed, yet everything felt different.
"Mr. Wynford would like to observe your technique first. Please set up here." He said, and gestured toward a blank canvas on a central easel.
My heart thumped.
"Are we… recording this?" I asked, unsure.
"No," he said smoothly. "Just Mr. Wynford. No one else."
Alone, I took a deep breath. The room smelled faintly of paint and varnish, familiar and oddly comforting. I set up my materials, trying to focus on the process rather than the growing unease in my chest.
I started with light strokes, simple shading. My hands moved with natural ease at first, but soon, the same unexplainable rhythm returned. Each line, each curve, each blending of color felt instinctual.
It wasn't taught. It wasn't copied. Yet it was perfect.
I paused. My eyes flicked toward the covered canvases along the walls. I hadn't seen the painting inside, but the echo of its style haunted my hands. I shook my head and pressed on, trying to remain conscious of my choices rather than letting my hands take over.
"Interesting," a voice said behind me.
I froze. Adrian Wynford stood at the threshold of the studio. Calm, controlled, and watching me.
"I see your technique has evolved," he said, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity.
"Thank you sir" I muttered
He walked closer, observing every stroke. "Sometimes technique reveals itself without warning. It's not always the result of training, it can be instinct, memory, intuition. You seem attuned."
I felt my cheeks flush. His presence made every movement heavier, more deliberate. The room seemed smaller, charged with observation.
"Tomorrow, we'll discuss the next steps," he said quietly, almost to himself. "For now, continue."
I continued, each stroke both thrilling and terrifying. My hands moved with a confidence that didn't belong to me, yet I couldn't stop. Every brushstroke carried a weight I couldn't name, and a sense that I was touching something far bigger than just paint and canvas.
When the session ended, I stepped back. My arms ached. My heart raced. My mind swirled with questions I couldn't answer.
Adrian nodded once and stayed calm without another word. I exhaled, feeling both relief and an inexplicable longing.
I stared at the canvas I had just painted. It wasn't just skill, it was understanding. Understanding I hadn't earned, yet somehow possessed.
A quiet realization settled in me. Whatever was happening, whatever force guided my hand, this commission was far more than just a job.
And I had no idea how deep it would go.