A/N: Hi! This is my first Ib fanfiction! I hope you enjoy it! If it is recieved well, I'll update soon!

Disclaimer: I don't own Ib.


"Ib, dear, are you ready to leave yet?" My mother calls out to me from the floor below. "Yes, mother! One second!" I finish brushing my dark chocolate hair and stare at my reflection in the large mirror. Today I was visiting the Guertena art gallery, named in memory of the exhibits' creator. I had visited the gallery previously as a child, nine years old to be exact. Though today, after turning seventeen the week before, I was returning.

"Ib!" I sighed, standing from my position at the mahogany vanity. I guess that's my queue to return to reality. I check my skirt pocket one final time, smiling when I found my handkerchief and the familiar wrapping of a lemon candy. I then left my room, ran down the winding staircase, and joined my parents on the way out of our home.

During the drive to the exhibit, I could not help but feel a faint feeling of nausea. It was if my body was recoiling, though, without a known reason as to why. Why do I feel so… so unsure? I brushed the thought to the back of my mind and continued to stare at the fleeting scenery outside my window. When we arrived, I quickly parted ways with my parents, wishing to view the gallery alone. "Just be careful." Was the only reply.

I walked through the white hallways, taking my time to view each piece. Some, such as 'Eternal Blessing' seemed to bring a familiar contentment, while some, such as 'The Lady in Red' left me slightly apprehensive. These feelings became stronger as I examined each piece, leaving me confused. They're only paintings, why do I feel like they'll jump out at me any minute?

Though as one painting came into view, I felt new emotions make themselves known. Sadness, loneliness, guilt. Every one crashed over my very being like a wave. The painting was called 'The Forgotten Portrait'. It was of a young man, looking to be about eighteen, supposedly sleeping. He was wearing a torn navy coat with a olive-coloured shirt underneath, his light lavender hair softly draped over one eye. Sapphire roses surrounded him and he looked to be sad, his small mouth curved into a slight frown.

The more I stared, the stronger my emotions grew until my view was clouded by brewing teardrops, threatening to fall down my cheeks. Why am I crying over this? I could not explain it, but this man somehow seemed familiar. Though no matter how hard I tried, I could not place an identity to him. I wiped the tears away, and looked at him once more. I cannot explain it, but 'he' seemed to call to me. As much as it bothered me to do so, I decided to leave the painting, in search of one without such powerful feeling attached.

After several minutes of wandering, I finally came across one that did just that. I saw that it was named 'Fabricated World'. An odd name. I looked at it. It looked like the gallery, scribble-like paint strokes reflecting and image similar to the entry. It looked life like and, just to test, I placed my hand on it's golden frame. In an instant, it vanished, leaving me stunned. Where did it go? My mother has always told me that my curiosity will get me in trouble, and I truly believe her, because once I knew no one was around, I jumped into the liquid world.


I smiled as she came closer to my glass barrier, the small frame I have been confined to for who knows how long finally seemed less lonely. You've returned. At last, I can be sure that you made it back safe.