The lost boy

The old art studio was Enoch's favourite room. A ray of light revealed the dust that had settled down on the painting tools. Along the wide window, a bunch of dead moths had gathered. The time had faded the colours of their wings. The rest of the mansion was covered in a dusty layer and an odd smell of the forgotten hung in the air. Enoch's nightgown waved above the ground as he swept through the house.
Suddenly he heard a crack and winced. Steps followed and the boy hurried to get away from the broken front door. His heart nearly exploding, he hid under a table and its stained tablecloth. ''Hiding is irrelevant'', he whispered, then silently smiled. Yes, it was indeed, because Enoch was invisible.
As his parents were busy in their jobs and often en route, they had to move a lot. As they once again were about to get their things packed, they forgot their son. Enoch lived alone. He was so lonely that he became invisible all of a sudden. Only a true friend was to see him. So the boy haunted the mansion, scaring tourists by throwing things out of the threatening, dusty darkness. The wooden corridors which directly led to the art room began to creak when someone rushed over them. Enoch decided to examine the stomping someone interrupting his Thursday morning. Scurrying through the blotchy curtains, he followed the person into the art studio.
Octavian Bloomdaylie, a man in his grey thirties, dropped his leather shoulder bag. Enoch hummed a portentous melody, as if he wanted to frighten the man, but something stopped the boy. It was the way Octavian was treating the house. He saw it how it had been once - not the aged ruine.
''Ah, yes!'', he cried. Octavian let his eyes wander over the stale paintings and discovered an empty canvas on an easel. He was hunting around hectically in the bag on the ground and fetched out brushes, a couple of paint pots and a mixing palette. Watching Octavian drag the easel into the small beam of light, Enoch flew to and fro, excited what he would do next.
Octavian took off his beige coat and rolled his sleeves up. He adjusted the canvas for a last time, then began to draw. ''I am having an old friend in my mind.'', he mumbled.
A while had passed, and a beautiful painting developed. Octavian looked at his work and was very pleased with himself. Finally he left the room. Enoch eyed the painting with amazement. ''It's... me.''
Enoch's body disappeared and vanished into the soft brush strokes of the painting.