The Girl in the Painting

It was dark.
The spiral staircase led me to the upper floor of the abandoned warehouse. A lonely
door stood there, staring at me. I felt a rush of energy tingling through my veins, I must be
getting closer. Whatever was calling me was unquestionably behind that door.
As my hand gently brushes off the handle, the door swings open, pulling me into the room.
I could feel the warm summer breeze whistling through the broken glass of the arched
window. It was damp.
The whole place was nothing more than a ghostly silhouette of a previous existence.
Previous existence. It’s funny how I chose to think of this term.
I walked towards the back of the room as the wood creaked beneath my feet.
The vast room had moldy eroded walls with remains of shredded wallpaper, and rusty
chandeliers that held onto the ceiling for dear life.
There, leaning against the wall were old wooden canvas stands that stood beside a
worn-out oak table, where generations of spiders built their webs around its legs. On top
of it, a resting wooden palette with its colorful battle wounds held the bodies of empty
paint tubes and bristled brushes of many races.
I felt that rush again; it must be here. Whatever was calling me must be here.
There, in the corner. There was something underneath that enormous piece of dusty cloth.
I run to uncover the secret lying beneath.
Paintings. Almost a hundred of them, var ying in shapes and sizes placed one on top of
the other. Another jolt of energy shivers through my core.
As I rush to lay them side by side, I begin to notice a certain resemblance.
‘’Had I met her before?’’ I asked myself. ‘’Impossible’’.
They ’re all paintings of the same woman, yet they depict her in different historical eras; It
almost seems like a timeline. In some, she seemed to be content, in others, she appeared
stricken with grief.
Something about her made her look familiar, it was as if I had known her my whole life.
Who was she? She looked like she had felt the emotions of a thousand lifetimes. The same
sensation I had experienced whilst that mysterious blast of energy ran through me.
I held the last painting in my hand, letting my fingers gently touch her face and it was then
that I had suddenly realized: that woman was me.