Christoph had always felt like a ghost in his own life. At Saint Helia Academy, no one really noticed him unless they needed to borrow paint or paper. He was the orphan boy, the quiet kid who always sat by the window during art class, painting worlds that didn't exist.
He didn't talk much because words never seemed enough. Colors were easier they never judged, never laughed, and never asked why he didn't have parents waiting for him after class. He lived in the academy's old dormitory, Room 9-C, the one that creaked when the wind blew. His favorite place, though, was the art room. It smelled of turpentine and old wood, and when he painted there, it felt like the world slowed down enough for him to breathe. He often painted things he wished he could touch sunlight, laughter, home. And sometimes, strange ideas appeared in his head that he didn't understand. He'd paint them anyway: silver trees with glowing roots, oceans in the sky, and faces that looked almost human but not quite. It was his way of filling the silence that lived inside him.
But lately, something about his art felt different. The colors shimmered long after they dried, and he could swear his sketches shifted when he wasn't looking. Once, he thought he saw one of his painted stars blink. He told himself it was just tiredness. After all, kids like him weren't meant to believe in magic.