Alan

Alan was the artist everyone was talking about. Not just talented—he was obsessively brilliant. His paintings sold for huge sums, and critics called him a man capable of painting not faces, but feelings. But in the last few months, all his works had one thing in common: her.

The mysterious girl who began to haunt him in his dreams. At first, they were only fragments: a silhouette in the dim light, slender fingers, a delicate scent that made his head spin. And then he saw her face. Impossible, too beautiful to be real. In his dreams, she never spoke—she only looked, came closer, let him touch her hair. And in the morning, she was gone.

At first, Alan tried to resist, blaming it on fatigue. But soon he picked up a brush and painted her. The first portrait seemed insufficiently lifelike, then a second, a third… Soon his entire studio was filled with her face. He began to look forward to night more than day, falling asleep with only one thought—to see her again. He talked to her portraits, touched her painted cheeks, remembering the warmth of her skin from his dreams. Without realizing it, he fell in love. Madly. Hopelessly. With a girl who might not even exist.

It was this series of paintings that brought him his greatest fame. At the new exhibition, dozens of her portraits adorned the white walls of the hall. Alan accepted congratulations, but felt only emptiness.

He was about to leave when he suddenly smelled a familiar aroma.

My heart sank.

At the other end of the hall she stood.

Alive. Real. Same hair, lips, eyes.

She calmly examined his paintings, unaware that she was looking at her own portraits. For her, she was simply another muse. For him, she was the woman he already loved.

Unsure how, he moved closer. She turned, smiled, and quietly asked:

— Are these your works?

• Yes.

She looked at the painting again.

"She is incredibly beautiful... Your muse. You must love her very much."

Alan looked only at her.

• More than you can imagine