His eyes open, and the Gallery chuckles.

He stands up, dusting blue petals from his chest and turns to regard the ornate wooden frame behind him. The glass covering is shattered, and the blue roses are strewn across the floor of the empty corridor. The smell of crayon lingers in the stagnant air, and a curious ringing echoes in his ears. He raises a hand, and brushes his hair from his eye, but it drops back to hang over the left side of his face, obscuring his vision. Ah, it doesn't matter, he's used to it anyways.

Reaching down, long, pale fingers curl around the stem of the only whole rose within a sea of ravaged blossoms, tiny thorns biting into skin and drawing red. It doesn't smell metallic in the slightest. Thumb and forefinger pinch a petal, and sticky, not-quite-dried paint squelches between the two digits.

A painting has died, and a painting was created to replace it.

As he turns and walks up the scribbled, crayon steps, the corridor of the yellow girl's toy box is left barren and silent, except for the new canvas on the wall and the scattering of wilting blue petals trailing down the hall.

The Forgotten Portrait has awoken.


The red girl stands in front of the Fabricated World, hesitant, unsure. Her fingers are tight around the stem of a red rose, four petals clinging on stoutly. The frame flickers, once, twice, and disappears, red-clad feet step towards the

mural, and that's when The Forgotten Portrait steps in.

"Ib! I said I'd catch up, didn't I? Anyways, I think I've found the exit! It's not here, it's over there. Wanna go check it out?"

He plasters a smile on his face and draws from hazy, half-forgotten memories of the person he had been, and calls out in a light tone.

The red girl stops, clearly caught off guard, and he can see the conflict going on within her as she deliberates on whether to trust him.

She will, The Forgotten Portrait knows.

Her trust in him must have won out over her hesitance, she's just a little girl after all, and even she wants the comfort of an adult at a point like this. She turns to him, and stumbles over, grabbing onto his hand with a grip so hard, if his nerves still worked he would have winced.

As the walk away, from the corner of his eye he can see the frame reappear, locking up the only exit from this Gallery. The Forgotten Portrait smiles, and leads the girl deeper inwards. He may still be the person known as 'Garry', and he may still remember their journey together through the Gallery, trying to find a way out, but there is a change now. He no longer feels concern for the girl holding his hand.

He is Garry, but he doesn't care anymore.

The Forgotten Portrait breathes, in, out, and forgets, and the Gallery chuckles.