Chapter 220 – The Painting
The painting was still hung on the wall, its frame slightly crooked. Neville had noticed it the moment he entered, and without thinking, he paused, staring at it. The golden frame glinted under the dim light, catching his eye instantly. He stood frozen, staring at the portrait, barely aware of his own breathing.
The painting’s subject, a man with a long, flowing beard and sharp eyes, seemed to be staring right back at him. Neville felt a sudden chill, as if the man had just blinked. His fingers twitched at his side.
“Is that really you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been so long.”
The painting’s man turned slightly, his expression softening. “Yes, Neville,” he said, his voice calm and warm. “It’s me. I’ve been waiting.”
Neville blinked. “You… you’re real?”
“Of course I am,” the man replied, smiling faintly. “I’ve been here all along. Waiting for you to come back.”
Neville swallowed hard. “I didn’t know… I thought you were just a memory.”
“I’m more than that,” the man said gently. “I’m still here. And I’m still watching.”
Neville stepped closer, his heart pounding. The portrait’s eyes followed him, unblinking. He reached out slowly, fingertips hovering just above the surface. The air around the painting hummed with quiet magic.
“Can you… talk to me?” Neville asked, voice trembling.
“Of course,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.”
Neville exhaled, his breath shaky. “You… you don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”
The man’s smile deepened. “I know, Neville. I’ve seen everything. I’ve felt every step you’ve taken.”
Neville turned his head, looking around the room. “I didn’t think I’d ever come back.”
“You did,” the man said. “And now you’re here. That’s what matters.”
Neville looked back at the painting. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything,” the man replied. “Just be here. Just be you.”
Neville nodded, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m here.”
The painting’s man nodded back. “Good. That’s good.”
For a long moment, they simply stood there—Neville, staring at the portrait, and the man, watching him with quiet understanding.
Then Neville whispered, “I’m scared.”
The man’s expression softened. “I know. But you’re not alone.”
Neville looked down. “I just… I don’t want to fail.”
“You won’t,” the man said. “Not if you keep going. Not if you believe.”
Neville wiped his eyes. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” the man said. “That’s all I ask.”
Outside, the wind howled through the halls. Inside, the silence between them felt deep, full of meaning.
Neville took a step back. “I should go.”
“Not yet,” the man said. “There’s still time.”
Neville hesitated. “I’ll come back.”
“I’ll be here,” the man promised.
Neville turned toward the door. As he reached for the handle, he paused.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
The man smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Neville opened the door and stepped out. The portrait watched him go, eyes still fixed on his back.
And somewhere in the silence, the painting seemed to breathe.
—
Later that night, Neville found the painting again.
The frame was deep red and gold, the colors rich and vibrant. As he stared at it, he saw the man inside—the same man, still standing in the same place, still watching.
But something was different.
The man’s beard was longer now, and his eyes held a deeper weariness. Yet his expression remained kind, steady.
Neville reached out, touching the glass. The surface was cool.
“Are you… okay?” he asked.
The man nodded. “I’m fine. I’ve been waiting.”
“Did you… miss me?” Neville asked.
The man smiled. “More than you know.”
Neville swallowed. “I’ve been so busy. So many things to do.”
“You’re doing well,” the man said. “I can see that.”
Neville looked away. “I just… I don’t want to let you down.”
“You never will,” the man said. “Not as long as you keep trying.”
Neville nodded. “I will.”
The man reached out, as if to touch him. His hand passed through the glass, and for a moment, Neville felt a warmth on his cheek.
“Go on,” the man said. “I’ll be here.”
Neville turned to leave.
But before he did, he looked back.
“Will you still be here tomorrow?” he asked.
The man smiled. “Always.”
Neville stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him.
And the painting remained—watching, waiting, silent.
—
The next morning, Neville didn’t find the painting.
The frame was empty.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the wall.
No portrait. No man. No voice.
Just silence.
He turned away, heart heavy.
But deep inside, he knew.
He had been seen.
He had been remembered.
And that was enough.
—
(End of Chapter)
Chapter end
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