The exhibition hall is quiet enough that I can hear my own heartbeat. Soft lights spill over canvases—some painted with joy, some soaked in sorrow, others tangled with confusion. I stand before one, letting my eyes follow the brushstrokes, anything to keep my mind steady.
Fairy steps beside me, her heels tapping lightly against the floor.
"Mr. Evan—" she pauses, then gives a shy smile, "Can I call you Evan?"
I return a small smile. "Of course."
"And please… call me Fairy."
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, gentle and soft—too soft for the world I live in.
Before I can answer, I feel her presence move closer. Much closer.
Her delicate fingers brush my hair.
"There's something… on your hair," she murmurs.
Her scent—floral, warm, faintly sweet—wraps around me too suddenly. My breath stutters. A spike of nausea hits, instinctive, my body reacting before my mind can.
I step back immediately.
She blinks. "Evan? Are you okay?"
