Lucien Mori was the kind of boy most people at school looked through, not at. He wasn’t invisible, not exactly, just muted. As if the world around him existed in the full spectrum of color, while he drifted through it in monochrome. Tall, sharp-jawed, with olive skin and messy black hair constantly falling into his eyes, Lucien never cared for attention. His eyes, quiet and deep, almost always half-lidded, seemed like they were always elsewhere, like his soul refused to be anchored.

He lived with his aunt Camille in an aging townhouse at the edge of the city, a city wrapped in gray fog and pigeons and the constant hum of passing trains. Aunt Camille was stern and brisk, a well-meaning but emotionally distant woman who kept the heat turned low and the windows locked tight. She took Lucien in when his parents died in a car crash five years ago, and though they coexisted politely, neither had ever called the other family.

He didn’t mind, though. He had his sketchbooks, his paints, and the attic studio Aunt Camille begrudgingly let him use. School felt more like a passing requirement than a life experience, he barely passed most classes, except for art, where he outshone every student with an effortless melancholy in every brushstroke.

Lucien: "Almost done."

He murmured to himself as he stared down at the canvas. Today’s creation was different. Most of his pieces were expressions, abstract shapes, emotions made visible. But this... this was a child. A girl, about five, with wide lilac eyes and snow-white hair that fell in soft curls around her face. She wore a dusty pink dress with tiny embroidered roses, hands clasped around a worn stuffed rabbit.

Lucien: "Where did you come from...?"

He hadn’t meant to paint her.

It was as if his hand moved on its own, possessed by something unseen. He couldn’t remember picking the colors or outlining her features. But now that she was there, framed by a swirl of soft light in the painting’s background, Lucien couldn’t look away.

And stranger still, her eyes stared back.

The school day after was uneventful. People moved around him as always, buzzing about graduation and parties. Lucien walked the halls like a ghost, hearing but not listening.

Classmate: "Hey, Mori, you heading to Carter’s grad thing?"

Lucien: "No."

He didn’t bother with explanations. No one expected them.

When he got home, the house was quiet. Aunt Camille had left a note about being late from work and dinner in the fridge. Lucien ignored it, going straight up to the attic.

There it was. The painting.

Still where he left it, still impossible. The girl looked even more vivid now, like her hair had caught the glow of real sunlight. Her eyes, those strange, glassy lilac eyes, seemed to shimmer.

Lucien: "What are you?"

As he stared, he felt a tug inside his chest. A pull. Something was wrong. Or right. He couldn’t tell.

The days that followed were... different.

Lucien started dreaming of her. The little girl from the painting, wandering a field of tall, silver grass. Always just out of reach, her laughter soft like windchimes. In the dreams, she was never afraid, just waiting.

His school life became more of a blur. Teachers began to notice the distant look in his eyes. Aunt Camille commented once that he looked pale. Lucien brushed her off.

Lucien: "I’m just tired."

But he wasn’t. Not really. He felt more alive than ever, confused, obsessed, haunted.

He tried to paint other things, but everything he made slowly twisted into her again. Her face hidden in clouds, her rabbit peeking from behind trees, her curls in the waves of the sea.

Lucien: "What do you want from me?"

He didn’t expect an answer. But one night, he heard a voice.

Girl: "Lucien."

He sat upright in bed, heart thundering.

Lucien: "Who’s there?"

Silence. But he knew. The painting. The attic. The girl. Something was waking up.

Lucien Mori was late. Again.

He snatched his backpack off the couch, toast clenched between his teeth, sketchpad already under one arm. Aunt Camille’s voice trailed behind him from the hallway like a threat he didn’t have time to deal with.

Camille: “If you miss the bus again, don’t expect me to write another excuse letter!”

Lucien: “Love you too!”

He bolted up the narrow attic steps, intending to grab his charcoal kit before sprinting out the door. But when he pushed open the attic door, his world tilted.

There, sitting calmly in front of the large easel, was a child.

A little girl.

She wore a dusty pink dress, the hem frayed as if it had been worn for years. Her straight white hair shimmered in the faint light from the attic window, and her violet eyes locked onto his with a curious calmness.

Lucien stared. She stared back.

Lucien: “... Hi?”

Girl: “Hi.”

Lucien: “What are you doing in my attic?”

Girl: “Waiting for you.”

Lucien: “... I don’t even know you.”

She stood, smoothed her dress, and tilted her head. Her eyes, glowing slightly, flicked toward the painting still sitting on the easel behind her.

Lucien's gaze followed, and then his stomach dropped.

The unfinished painting. It was of a forest glade, soft and otherworldly, dappled in light. And in the center, he’d recently added a little girl, still incomplete, dressed in dusty pink with white hair and pale eyes.

Exactly like the child in front of him. He turned back to her.

Lucien: “No. No, no, no. That’s not possible.”

Girl: “I came from there.”

Lucien: “Paintings don’t come to life.”

Girl: “Then I must be a special one.”

Lucien backed up until his legs hit a crate, nearly toppling it over.

Lucien: “This has to be a prank. Aunt Camille put you up to this, didn’t she?”

Girl: “Who’s Camille?”

Lucien: “My aunt. Who is absolutely going to kill me if she finds out I have a child hiding in her attic.”

The girl blinked, completely unfazed.

Girl: “I’m not hiding.”

Lucien: “You are now!”

He yanked open the old wardrobe in the corner.

Lucien: “Get in there. Now.”

Girl: “Okay!”

She cheerfully skipped into the wardrobe and sat cross-legged among old winter coats, humming to herself. Lucien shut the door, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sank to the floor.

Lucien: “What is my life right now.”

Fifteen minutes later, with Camille off at her yoga class, Lucien opened the wardrobe again. The girl was still there, counting dust bunnies.

Lucien: “You got a name?”

Girl: “Nope.”

Lucien: “Right. Of course you don’t.”

She crawled out and looked around the attic like it was a palace.

Girl: “You made this place.”

Lucien: “Technically, Aunt Camille owns it, but sure. I’m the artist.”

Girl: “Then you’re my Papa.”

Lucien: “No, no no no, stop right there. I’m 17. 17-year-olds don’t get to be papas!”

Girl: “You made me. That’s what matters.”

Lucien gave her a look of pure horror.

Lucien: “You don’t understand how disturbing that sentence is.”

The girl tilted her head again.

Girl: “You don’t look mean. You look tired.”

Lucien sighed.

Lucien: “Yeah. That’s just called ‘being in high school.’”

...

By the time the sun began to set, Lucien had half-heartedly tried to sketch the girl again, only for the pencil to keep slipping in his fingers. The real version sat eating crackers and giggling at the flickering attic light.

He watched her carefully. She breathed. She blinked. She ate snacks and hummed made-up songs.

She was real.

Somehow, impossibly, he had brought a child to life. And now he had to keep her a secret from the world. Especially from Camille.

Lucien: “Alright. Rule one: No running around the house. Rule two: No talking to strangers. Rule three: Never let Aunt Camille see you. Got it?”

The girl gave him a bright, toothy grin.

Girl: “Got it, Papa!”

Lucien: “Oh, for the love of-”

Lucien paced the attic floor, running both hands through his already messy black hair. His brain couldn't catch up. There was a small child sitting on the dusty floor eating crackers and smiling like it was a normal Tuesday. And he had painted her.

No, not just painted her, brought her to life.

He crouched in front of the girl and studied her carefully. Her violet eyes glittered with something... not entirely human. There was a spark, a flicker of light in her irises that almost looked like reflections of stars. Her white hair, though straight, shifted ever so slightly as if moved by a wind that didn’t exist in the still attic air. Her skin was porcelain-smooth, not a single blemish or scar.

She looked perfect. Too perfect.

Lucien: “You seriously don’t remember anything from before?”

Girl: “I remember... colors. A lot of green. And the feeling of your brush. It tickled.”

Lucien blinked.

Lucien: “Okay. Creepy. Got it.”

He glanced at the attic door. Camille wasn’t due back for another hour, but even still, his nerves prickled. The girl wasn’t noisy, but she had a habit of humming weird little tunes. Ethereal melodies that seemed just off-key enough to give him chills.

Lucien: “You need a name.”

She brightened.

Girl: “A name? Like yours?”

Lucien: “Yeah. People have names. Can’t just keep calling you ‘hey’ forever.”

He walked over to his sketchpad and flipped through the pages. Notes scribbled in the margins caught his attention: ideas for names he’d once considered for her character.

Lucien: “How about... Sylva? Or Noelle?”

The girl shook her head at each suggestion.

Girl: “Noooope. Doesn’t feel right.”

Lucien: “Of course it doesn’t.”

She picked up one of his graphite pencils and twirled it in her fingers expertly, like she already knew what it was. Then, with a soft voice, she whispered,

Girl: “What about... Callista?”

The name hung in the air like perfume. Lucien blinked.

Lucien: “Callista. That’s... actually really pretty.”

She grinned, proud.

Callista: “Then that’s me!”

He sighed and sat beside her on the attic floor.

Lucien: “Okay, Callista. I have no idea how you got here. But you can’t let my aunt see you. And we’re going to figure this out. Together.”

Callista: “Okay, Papa.”

Lucien: “Stop calling me that.”

Callista: “Never.”

...

That night, Lucien barely slept. He had managed to sneak Callista down to the tiny guest room in the basement, stuffing the corners with pillows and blankets. He found her a small sweater and jeans from the donation pile that almost fit.

She’d curled up on the makeshift bed and fallen asleep instantly, hugging a roll of drawing paper like a teddy bear.

Lucien, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling for hours.

His life was already hard enough. His parents were gone. He lived under his aunt’s strict rules. He barely scraped by in school. And now he was harboring a magical, possibly interdimensional child born from one of his paintings.

He rolled onto his side and muttered,

Lucien: “Why couldn’t it have been a dog.”

...

Morning light filtered through the cracked blinds, and Lucien stumbled into the kitchen to find Camille sipping coffee and reading her paper.

Camille: “You’re up early.”

Lucien: “Didn’t sleep well.”

She arched a perfectly drawn-on brow.

Camille: “Stress dreams again?”

Lucien: “Something like that.”

He grabbed cereal and pretended to be normal. Meanwhile, his ears strained to hear any sound from the basement.

Nothing.

Good girl, Callista.

Aunt Camille stood and grabbed her purse.

Camille: “I’ll be out most of the day. Art show meeting, then groceries. Don’t burn the house down.”

Lucien: “Noted.”

As soon as the door closed, Lucien sprinted to the basement.

Lucien: Whispers. “Callista!”

The door opened a crack, and she peeked through.

Callista: “Shhhh, I heard the dragon lady leave.”

He laughed before he could stop himself.

Lucien: “You are way too clever.”

She came out in the oversized sweater, sleeves dragging the floor.

Callista: “I drew something.”

She handed him a rolled-up paper. He opened it slowly. It was a drawing. Of them. Sitting together in the attic, surrounded by stars. She’d drawn it with better depth and style than half of his class could manage.

Lucien: “You... you know how to draw?”

Callista: “You made me. I have what you have.”

Lucien stared at the drawing in stunned silence. This wasn’t just imagination. She was learning. Evolving.

...

By afternoon, they had created a routine. Lucien would go to school while Callista stayed hidden. She promised to stay in the basement, and he promised to bring her back books and snacks.

But every day he came home, she had new drawings for him. And each one was a little more magical. A little more alive. A tree that shimmered in the ink. A wolf that almost seemed to breathe. A shadow that looked suspiciously like it could step off the page.

Lucien felt something brewing. Like Callista wasn’t the only thing capable of slipping from the canvas into reality.

Something else was waking up. And it might not be so friendly.

Lucien: "Okay, you can stay... But you have to promise not to make any noise. Aunt Camille hears anything and we're both doomed."

Callista: "I can be very quiet. Like a cat!"

Lucien closed the door behind them, eyes darting to the hallway as though expecting his aunt to appear from the shadows like a vengeful spirit. He ushered the strange little girl, Callista, into his room and sat her gently on the bed.

She swung her legs, taking in the posters on his walls, the scattered sketchbooks, the glass jars of paintbrushes. Her wide violet eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Callista: "Is this where you paint dreams?"

Lucien: "I guess you could say that."

He pulled up his chair, running a hand through his tangled black hair. Everything about this felt insane. She was still dusty from crawling out of a painting, his painting, and now she sat on his bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just materialized from a canvas.

Lucien: "Okay, listen. Who are you really? I need to understand what you are. You're not just some kid who got lost."

Callista: "You painted me. So I became real. I was waiting. For a long time."

Lucien stared at her.

Lucien: "That’s not how life works. People don’t just... exist because someone paints them."

Callista: "But I do. Because you believed in me when you painted me. That makes a difference."

Her answer didn't make sense, but her certainty was chilling. She said it like it was a simple truth of the universe. A universal law he had accidentally activated.

Lucien: "So what, you're some kind of... painting spirit?"

Callista: "Maybe. Or maybe I was just waiting to be remembered."

He looked at her closely. Despite the odd circumstances, she wasn’t frightening. She had the air of a strange little sister. Or a lost fairy tale character. There was even something ancient about her eyes, like a timelessness that didn’t match her age.

Lucien: "What am I supposed to do with you?"

Callista: "You're my guardian now. You painted me. You're responsible."

Lucien: "Great. Just great."

He slumped against his desk, exhaling deeply. This was the worst possible timing. He was weeks away from graduating high school. He had a final art portfolio due next week. Aunt Camille was already on edge because he hadn’t decided on a university.

Callista wandered to his easel, where his newest painting sat half-finished. It was a forest bathed in twilight, the trees gnarled and reaching like hands.

Callista: "Will you paint more like me?"

Lucien: "I don't know. I didn't mean to paint you like that. You were just... a dream."

Callista touched the edge of the canvas gently.

Callista: "Dreams are powerful things, Lucien. If you believe in them enough, they might believe back."

He blinked at her, unsettled. Her words stirred something deeper in him, something he hadn’t yet named. Something stirring in his chest like a sleeping memory.

Before he could answer, a knock came at the door. His stomach dropped.

Aunt Camille: "Lucien? Are you talking to someone?"

Lucien bolted upright, heart pounding. He turned to Callista and mouthed, "Hide."

She darted under the bed without a sound, pulling the blanket edge down behind her.

Lucien cracked the door open a sliver.

Lucien: "No, Aunt Camille. Just... talking to myself."

Aunt Camille: "You haven’t been doing that weird art chanting again, have you?"

Lucien: "What? No. That was just for that one presentation."

She peered at him with narrowed eyes, her salt-and-pepper hair tied up in a tight bun. Aunt Camille was the type who baked cinnamon scones but scolded people for breathing too loud.

Aunt Camille: "Well, dinner in an hour. Clean up before then."

Lucien: "Got it."

He shut the door and waited for her footsteps to fade down the hall before collapsing against it.

Lucien: "Okay... we need rules."

Callista emerged, dust bunnies clinging to her white hair.

Callista: "Rules are boring. You just gave me rules and now, another set of it? Come on!"

Lucien: "Hush. Rule number one: No being seen. Ever. Rule two: No making noise when Aunt Camille's around. Rule three: No leaving my room."

Callista: "What about rule four?"

Lucien: "Rule four is... don't be magical unless I say so."

She smiled impishly, clearly already planning to break rule four.

They spent the evening in his room. He gave her an old hoodie and a plush rabbit from a childhood box in his closet. Callista curled up in a pile of his unused canvases like a cat, humming a tune too ancient and soft to place.

Lucien lay awake long after midnight, staring at the ceiling. The girl who came from paint. Who called him her guardian. What did it mean for him? What would happen if Aunt Camille found her?

Or worse, what if Callista wasn’t the only thing his paintings could bring to life?

He had questions. Too many. But for now, all he could do was keep her safe. Even if it meant everything else in his life falling apart.

Callista: "Lucien... are you still awake?"

Lucien: "Yeah."

Callista: "Thank you for painting me."

Lucien: "... You're welcome, I guess."

He rolled over, his gaze settling on the twilight forest on his easel. The paint shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Almost like it breathed. Something about this was only just beginning.