Painted in Fate

Chapter 5: The Unseen Threads

Babe paced the length of his studio, heart pounding in his chest. He'd left the café in such a hurry that he hadn't even explained himself to Nana properly. His mind was spinning with the realization that the estate in his paintings—those blurred, indistinct backgrounds—wasn't just some figment of his imagination.

It was real.

And now, all he could think about was finding it.

He stopped in front of his easel, staring at the latest painting of the man from his dreams. As always, the man's face was perfect—handsome, haunting, but familiar in a way that made Babe's chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't name. But tonight, it wasn't just the face that drew his attention.

It was the background.

The more he stared at the half-finished canvas, the more certain he became. He knew that estate, even though he had never seen it before in real life. There was something about it—something tied to the man, tied to his dreams—that made him feel like everything was connected.

His fingers itched to start painting again, but there was something else pulling at him—a deeper need. He had to know more.

Without giving himself time to second-guess, Babe grabbed his phone and searched for images of old estates, historical mansions, anything that might resemble the place in his painting. His fingers flew over the screen, scrolling through image after image, but nothing matched.

Frustration bubbled up in his chest. He felt like he was so close, like the answer was right there, just out of reach, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find it.

Finally, he stopped, staring at his phone in defeat. Was he losing his mind? How could he be so sure of something that didn't even exist? His rational mind told him to let it go, to stop obsessing over dreams and paintings. But another part of him—an instinct, a gut feeling—refused to listen.

He couldn't let it go.

Because if he did, he felt like he'd lose something important.

Across town, Billy stood in front of the painting in the east wing of his family's ancestral house, his heart racing. It had been hours since he first stepped into the room, but he hadn't been able to tear himself away from the painting. The boy's face—so hauntingly beautiful, so familiar—had a hold on him that he couldn't explain.

It wasn't just the painting anymore. There was something deeper, something stirring in the back of his mind, like a forgotten memory trying to surface. Every time he looked at the boy's face, that feeling grew stronger—a mixture of guilt, sadness, and something darker.

His hand trembled as he reached out, his fingers barely grazing the edge of the canvas. A shock of cold spread through his chest, making his breath catch. It felt like... loss. And more than that, it felt like it was his fault.

Billy stumbled back, his eyes wide. What the hell was happening to him?

He didn't believe in fate, didn't believe in ghosts or past lives or any of the things his grandfather used to ramble about. But right now, standing in front of that painting, he couldn't shake the feeling that this boy—whoever he was—was connected to him in ways he couldn't explain.

Suddenly, a soft voice cut through the silence, startling him.

"Billy?"

Billy turned, his heart still racing, to find his grandfather standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing in here?" his grandfather asked, his voice calm but laced with something heavier, something that made Billy's skin prickle.

"I... I don't know," Billy admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I just... felt like I needed to be here."

His grandfather stepped into the room, his gaze drifting to the painting. For a long moment, he said nothing, just stared at the boy's face with a look Billy couldn't quite place. Sadness? Regret?

"You've always been drawn to this painting," his grandfather said quietly, his voice soft but heavy with meaning. "Ever since you were a child."

Billy swallowed hard, trying to shake off the strange feeling creeping up his spine. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why do I feel like I know him?"

His grandfather didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer to the painting, his hand reaching out as if to touch it, but stopping just short. "He's part of our family's past," his grandfather finally said, his voice low. "A debt that was never repaid."

Billy frowned. "A debt? What do you mean?"

His grandfather sighed, his gaze still fixed on the painting. "It's complicated. Our family owes him... more than we can ever repay. But that's a story for another time."

Frustration flared in Billy's chest. He wasn't in the mood for cryptic answers. "Grandpa, if you know something, just tell me. I've been dreaming about him."

That got his grandfather's attention. His eyes snapped to Billy's face, a flicker of something—fear?—crossing his features.

"Dreaming?" his grandfather echoed, his voice tight.

Billy nodded, feeling the weight of the admission. "Yeah. For months now. I don't know why, but I keep seeing him. And it's... it's intense. I feel things in those dreams—things I can't explain. Like I know him, like... like I did something to him."

His grandfather's face paled, and for a moment, Billy thought he might collapse.

"Grandpa?"

His grandfather took a shaky breath, his hand gripping the edge of the desk for support. "This is... this is worse than I thought," he muttered under his breath.

Billy's pulse quickened. "What are you talking about?"

His grandfather didn't answer right away. Instead, he stared at the painting, his expression a mix of fear and resignation. "It's starting again," he whispered. "Just like it did before."

Billy's stomach twisted with dread. "Before? What do you mean?"

His grandfather turned to face him, his eyes filled with an emotion Billy couldn't quite name. "There's more to this painting, to this boy, than you realize," he said slowly. "And if you're dreaming about him, it means... it means history is repeating itself."

Billy felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. "History? What history?"

His grandfather hesitated, then finally spoke, his voice low and haunted. "Your uncle. He was the one who set everything in motion. The one who caused the debt. And if you're dreaming about this boy, then it means the past is coming back."

Billy's blood ran cold. "What did my uncle do?"

His grandfather's gaze darkened, his lips thinning into a tight line. "That's not a story for tonight," he said grimly. "But mark my words, Billy. If you don't find a way to break the cycle, you're going to end up just like him."

Billy stared at his grandfather, his mind racing. He had no idea what any of this meant, but one thing was clear: whatever had happened in the past, whatever his uncle had done, it wasn't over.

Not yet.