In a world where shadows whisper secrets of old, Y/N, a vampire princess, and Jungkook, a vampire prince, wove a love story destined for the ages. Their hearts beat as one, entwined in a dance of passion that transcended time, until tragedy struck...
The night after the dream, Y/N's mind refused to calm. Sleep was a distant memory as she stood amidst the chaos of her studio, the air heavy with the smell of drying paint. Canvases littered the floor, each one a haunting reflection of the dream that had seized her. The images poured out of her like a flood she couldn't stop, roses, the field, him.
Her hands shook as she stepped back from her latest creation, the last stroke of red settling on the canvas like a wound. She stared at the painting, the figure, half obscured by petals, his features barely discernible, as if her memory refused to give her the clarity she so desperately craved.
Who are you?
The question echoed in her mind, louder now, insistent. There was something more to all of this. The dream, the roses, and the man who seemed to know her before she knew herself. Her heart pounded as the pieces refused to fit together, leaving her with a mess of tangled emotions and half-formed thoughts.
As dawn crept into the sky, casting pale light through her window, she made a decision. She couldn't stay here, locked in her own thoughts. The gallery. It had to have answers. The paintings she saw before, the roses, they were connected. Somehow. She had to know who had painted them and why they called to her in the same way her dreams did.
Y/N left her studio, exhaustion weighing heavy on her, but her need for answers drove her forward. By the time she reached the gallery, the morning light had settled across the city, but the tension in her chest hadn't eased. The gallery doors swung open easily, the quiet hum of voices drifting through the air as people strolled between the exhibits.
Her eyes darted across the familiar displays, but it was only one painting that drew her as if it had been waiting. The one she had stood in front of days ago, the one that had stirred something deep within her before this whirlwind had begun. Her heart raced as she approached it once more, the roses painted in such vivid detail it felt like they might spill from the canvas.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
But the signature was missing. The small, elegant stroke that usually marked the artist's presence was nowhere to be found. Nothing.
Who painted this?
Frustration gnawed at her. How could this be? How could something so personal, so specific, exist without any trace of its creator?
She turned, seeking out someone, anyone, who could give her an answer. Her gaze caught the gallery curator, a tall, thin woman with sharp features, drifting between patrons with an air of quiet authority. Y/N approached her, her mind buzzing with questions.
"Excuse me," Y/N said, her voice edged with urgency. "This painting, do you know who the artist is? There's no name, no signature."
The curator paused, glancing at the painting before turning to Y/N with a slight frown. "That one... it's part of a private collection, the most popular one. The artist prefers to remain anonymous."
