He jolted awake.
The room was still dark, but wrong — too quiet, like something had been waiting for him to stir.
His neck ached. He'd fallen asleep hunched in the wooden chair, paint still smudged on his fingers. Beans stretched lazily near the doorway, but even the cat looked more alert than usual — ears twitching, eyes fixed on the canvas.
The canvas.
Rey's heart jumped.
He stood abruptly, knocking the paint jar off the stool. It clattered to the floor, but he didn't flinch. His eyes were locked on the painting — the orchard he had started the night before.
Only… he hadn't painted that.
There was a path now — winding through the orchard, dappled in a soft golden light. The strokes were his, but not. There was a shadow under one of the trees. A figure, faint and small, sitting quietly near the edge of the frame.
Rey stepped closer, breath sharp.
That figure hadn't been there.
He would've remembered.
He stared at the brush still in his hand, then at the palette. The color — that soft honey hue tracing the path — wasn't on it. He didn't own that shade. It didn't exist in his tray, his tubes, not even in his memory.
He felt like the painting had been finished without him.
"Beans?" he said softly, half to the cat, half to himself.
Beans said nothing. Just stared.
Rey slowly reached out and touched the edge of the canvas. Dry. Too dry. As if it had been hanging there for days.
He stepped back, blood humming.
The teapot sat on the shelf, still quiet.
But the air in the room had changed — charged, heavy, like something had passed through while he slept.
He didn't know what was happening.
But it had started.
And now, there was no pretending otherwise.