Morning light streamed through the thin curtains, painting the walls of Amelia's apartment in muted gold. The storm had passed, leaving the world quiet, save for the occasional car horn in the distance. She stirred under the weight of sleep, her mind sluggish as reality bled back into her consciousness.
Then, she remembered.
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat up too quickly, heart thudding against her ribs. The events of the night before came rushing back—the storm, the glowing canvas, the impossible unraveling of paint and light, and then—
Amelia turned her head.
The girl was still there.
Not a dream. Not a trick of exhaustion.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her long hair spilling over her shoulders as she examined a book in her hands. The morning sun caught the strands, making them shimmer like an artist's finest brushstroke. She looked different in the daylight, more real—her features softened by the glow of morning, her expression serene as she traced the edge of the page with careful fingers.
Amelia's breath hitched. She's real.
As if sensing her gaze, the girl looked up. Their eyes met, and the warmth in them was just as deep as Amelia remembered. She felt it again, that stirring, that longing that had led her to paint the girl in the first place. Only now, the girl was no longer confined to a canvas. She was here—alive, breathing, looking at her with something unspoken between them.
"Good morning," the girl said softly, as if they had woken up beside each other a hundred times before.
Amelia opened her mouth, then closed it. There were a thousand things she wanted to ask, a thousand things that didn't make sense. But her voice felt stuck in her throat, tangled in disbelief. She could barely process the fact that this girl was standing in her apartment, not a figment of her imagination, not a dream born of loneliness or longing.
The girl tilted her head slightly, watching her. Then, she lifted the book. "I like this," she said, turning it toward Amelia. A Collection of Modern Art and Their Stories.
Amelia blinked, momentarily confused. That book had been on her shelf for months, untouched. It was one of the many she had bought with the intent of finding inspiration but had never gotten around to reading. The girl, however, held it with an appreciation that was almost childlike.
"You… can read?" Amelia managed, her voice hoarse from sleep and shock.
The girl nodded, her gaze never wavering from Amelia's. "I know things," she said simply. "I don't know how, but I do."
Amelia ran a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. "Okay," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "Okay. I—" She paused, looking at the girl again. "…What's your name?"
The girl's lips parted slightly, as if considering the question for the first time. She glanced down at the book in her lap, her fingers skimming the edge of a page. Then, she looked back at Amelia, a small, knowing smile on her lips.
"You made me," she said, her voice gentle. "You should name me."
Amelia's breath caught. She could feel her heart skip a beat as a strange, unfamiliar sense of responsibility washed over her. She had created this girl. But how? The question felt too big, too impossible to answer, and yet it echoed in her mind.
"Made you?" Amelia whispered, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of her bed. "I— I don't understand. You're not real. You can't be."
The girl tilted her head, her expression unchanging. "But I am." Her voice was soft, but there was an undeniable certainty in it.
Amelia swallowed hard. She looked at the girl again, really looked at her. She was breathtaking—impossibly beautiful in a way that made Amelia's chest ache. The soft glow to her skin, the shimmer in her hair, the way the sunlight made her seem like something not quite of this world—it all felt unreal. But here she was. She was real. And she wasn't going anywhere.
Amelia pushed herself to her feet, her knees weak, her heart racing. She took a step toward the girl, her eyes locked on the book in her lap. The girl seemed to be engrossed in it, but she looked up as Amelia approached, her gaze gentle, waiting.
"You can't just be real," Amelia said, her voice shaky, almost pleading. "I painted you. You came out of a painting. You—this isn't possible."
The girl's eyes softened, and she placed the book on the floor beside her. "I think it's possible," she said quietly. "I think I was meant to be here."
Amelia's mind swirled. "But why? Why me?"
The girl blinked, as if considering the question. "I'm not sure," she murmured, voice thoughtful. "But I think I'm here because you called me."
"Called you?" Amelia echoed, her chest tightening. "I—I wasn't calling anyone. I was just painting. I was—" She broke off, pressing her hands to her forehead. She had to be losing her mind. This can't be happening.
The girl stood up, her movement graceful and fluid, as though she was somehow part of the very air around her. She stepped closer to Amelia, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. When she reached her, she placed a soft hand on Amelia's arm, and a warmth spread through her, like the feeling of sunlight on bare skin after a long, cold winter.
"Sometimes," the girl said, her voice a soothing balm to Amelia's panic, "you don't have to understand everything right away."
Amelia stared at her, unsure of what to say, unsure of what she was supposed to do with this being in front of her. Her heart ached with a longing she couldn't name—something more than curiosity, more than confusion. There was a pull between them, something invisible but undeniable, and for the first time in a long time, Amelia felt as though she wasn't so utterly alone.
"What should I call you?" Amelia asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The girl smiled, a soft, quiet thing. "Whatever you want," she replied, her eyes sparkling. "I trust you."
Amelia's chest tightened. She had never been good at making decisions, let alone decisions that felt as important as this one. What name could capture the essence of this girl, this mystery?
She looked at her, seeing more than just the surface. She saw the girl in the painting, the one with the knowing eyes and the gentle smile. The girl who had stepped into her world and upended everything she thought she knew about reality. The girl who, in some way, had been waiting for her.
"I think…" Amelia began, her voice trembling but full of wonder, "I think I'll call you Seraphina."
The girl's smile widened, and for a moment, the whole room seemed to brighten. "Seraphina," she repeated softly, as though testing the name on her tongue. "It's beautiful."
Amelia felt a warmth spread through her at the sound of it—her name. And in that moment, she realized, with a strange clarity, that this wasn't just some dream. This wasn't an illusion. Seraphina was here. And this was just the beginning.
Outside, the city began to wake, the sounds of life returning. But inside this little apartment, in this small corner of New York, something entirely new had just begun.