The ancient city of Alver was known as the City of Mist. Its dimly lit alleys twisted like a labyrinth, and as shadows wavered under the glow of the gas lamps, whispers of an unsettling rumor spread among the townsfolk: “The shadows move.”
Leo, a young man aspiring to be a painter, half-believed and half-mocked such tales—until he saw one of these “moving shadows” with his own eyes. One night, while wandering the misty streets, a shadow detached itself from his feet without a sound and slid gracefully toward the ruins of an old art museum.
Compelled by curiosity and dread, Leo followed. The museum, once the pride of the town, had been abandoned after a devastating fire ten years prior. Now, it stood as a decaying relic no one dared approach. As Leo pushed open the rusted iron gate, a chill in the air greeted him. Moonlight seeped into the grand hall, illuminating walls scarred by soot, a crumbling staircase, and a warped chandelier that dangled precariously—a haunting remnant of the building’s former splendor.
The shadow moved silently through the space, luring him deeper into the museum, before vanishing into an exhibit room.
“Is someone there?” Leo called out. His voice echoed, and faint laughter replied from somewhere in the distance. A shiver ran down his spine, but he pressed on, opening the door to the exhibit room.
Inside, the walls were adorned with paintings, their vibrant colors untouched by the fire’s destruction. In fact, they looked as though they had just been painted. One painting, hanging prominently in the center, captivated his gaze—a portrait of a woman whose lifelike eyes seemed to meet his. As he stood before it, Leo noticed something chilling: her eyes moved.
“Do you find it beautiful?” a voice asked from behind him.
Leo spun around to see a man cloaked in black, his face obscured by shadows.
“Who are you?” Leo demanded.
“I am the creator of these paintings,” the man replied, his voice calm and deep. “And your father.”
Leo froze, his breath caught in his throat. His father had disappeared when he was just a child, presumed dead. Yet the voice before him was unmistakably his.
“Why are you here? And these paintings—what are they?”
“They are painted with souls,” his father said, the weight of his words heavy in the air. “On the night of the fire, I sacrificed my life to preserve these works. In doing so, I became part of them. I exist within this painting now.”
The air seemed to grow colder as his father continued, “Your time has come to make a choice. If you wish to complete this masterpiece, you must offer your shadow.”
Leo looked at the painting, then back at the man who claimed to be his father. The truth of the moving shadows, the indestructible paintings, all of it stood before him. Within him, a storm raged—a desire to complete the masterpiece clashed with a fear of the unknown.
“I can’t,” he said at last.
The moment the words left his mouth, his father’s form dissolved into mist. The paintings darkened as if the light had been drained from them. Shadows coiled around Leo, pulling him into their cold embrace, before retreating back into the depths of the museum.
Unsteady, Leo stumbled outside. As he caught his breath, he noticed a fragment of his shadow linger and slip back toward the ruins, vanishing into the darkness.
Though shaken, Leo was left with a chilling certainty: the shadows would move again—searching for the next artist.
