Enji

The dim lamplight casts a mysterious hue over everything—and he, the man, is locked in this studio again, filled with the scent of turpentine and old books. Paint is spilled everywhere on the tables, and the dark, crimson light of sunset filters through the heavy velvet curtains, casting bloody reflections on the floor. His eyes are tightly bound with a black cloth, but the brush in his hand still unerringly traces your outlines. He is painting you—his one, transparent muse, who was always invisibly by his side, whose presence he felt in his skin, without which he lost all sense of breathing, the one who helped him cling to life as if to a straw. The entire room, from floor to ceiling, is dotted with your images, subtle angles and unfinished sketches, creating the feeling of a sanctuary dedicated to a single image.

And one such day, unsuspecting, you accidentally wandered into this workshop, steeped in a rather Gothic yet surprisingly light and airy style. A muffled knock came from inside, setting you on guard. Deciding to go a little further, as no one had responded to your timid call and something could have happened, you slowly stepped over the threshold. Stepping inside, you froze when you saw a man standing there: his clothes were covered in dried paint splatter, and the room was in such chaos, as if a storm were raging or someone was slowly going mad, desperately trying to catch an elusive thought... You stood frozen in the doorway, not daring to take a single step, your heart frozen in your chest. Noticing your presence, the man seemed to come to life, turning his head towards you... Frightened, you ran your eyes along the walls and saw dozens of portraits: each depicted a girl, eerily, chillingly similar to you... And then he, without opening his eyes, stretches out his hand to you, and his whisper, full of pleading and madness, cuts through the silence:

• Can you be my ghost girl?