'This is it. . .'
In a flurry of long brown hair, Ib walked towards the large entrance of the art museum. In her hands, she held a pamphlet. It was from the last time Guertena's works had been displayed, seven years ago. Though she only remembered a portion of her trip, his art had a lasting impression on her. Unlike the last time she'd gone, her parent's did not enter along with her, instead, they'd dropped her off.
Finally, she stopped in front of the Information desk, picking up a new pamphlet. Not even pausing to look through it, she put it into the small messenger bag she'd been carrying at the time. Quietly, Ib began to quietly look through the gallery. It was three full levels this time, unlike last time which only displayed two. She took a brief moment to look at each painting. Some of them made her stop longer, such as the Juggler. Others, like the Lady in Red, or the Hanged Man, made her want to flee upon sight.
Her crimson eyes flicked from painting to painting as she viewed the galleries first floor. Pausing at the stairs that led towards the next section of the gallery, she took another brief glance behind her, taking in the paintings once more before she ascended up the seemingly endless staircase. Ib had grown quite a bit since she'd last been to see Guertena's works, but most of them she remembered quite well. Apparently, this time they were displaying the famous painter's entire collection, instead of just the majority of it.
Entering the second level, Ib repeated the same process as she'd done with the previous floor, briefly taking in each painting and getting her own interpretations from them. Her attention, for a moment, was drawn to the trio of statues without faces, known merely as 'The Death of the Individual' and seemed to almost wince just from looking at them. They were another work of Guertena's that she felt an odd feeling towards, but within seconds, she shook it away like she'd done with the others and continued her exploration of the exhibition.
Once she'd finished her inspection of the second floor, she moved on to the third and final floor. Without much thought, she climbed the stairs, quickly noticing the third floor was practically empty. Peeking around, she quietly inspected each painting, and was beginning to feel an odd sense of nostalgia, though she couldn't quite understand why. Finally, she came to the last painting, and that's where she stopped dead in her tracks. The painting was of an amazingly realistic young man, somewhere in his late teens/early twenties and Ib felt an even stronger sense of nostalgia just by looking briefly at it.
She never remembered seeing a painting like this from her last trip, so she looked down to check its name, Forgotten Portrait. Its name was ironically fitting for the appearance of the man within it. Only one of his eyes was visible, the other was hidden behind a mass of pale lavender colored hair. But his lids were closed, showing he was asleep. The dark navy jacket he wore was frayed and ripped in many places, an olive undershirt visible underneath its dark shadow. His expression looked almost sad, the blue roses that were in bloom all around him seemed to add to the dark demeanor of the painting.
About to turn away, Ib saw the lights flicker twice, then return to normal. Looking around, she tried to find out whether one of the lights was going out, or if it'd been on purpose. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement from the painting near her. Turning her attention back to it, she saw the roses were slowly moving, exiting the painting. With holding a shriek, Ib looked around, and the lights flickered again, this time, a large smear of reddish paint greeted her. Upon further inspection, she noticed that words had been formed in it, the words 'Welcome back Ib.'