Wind whistles through a deserted art gallery. Playfully kicking about the dust on canvas and paint, it passes a painting of a lady in red, grazes the headless statues, and whips about a young girl of nineteen. She intrigues the zephyr, decidedly different from the past visitors to the gallery since the case of the missing museum patrons those ten lonely years ago.

The gust dies off, and the stranger sighs. She'd never liked art galleries, but something had summoned her here this night. As she continued her trek down the corridor, she felt a sense of familiarity, pausing before various pieces like "Misshapen Diamond" and "Embodiment of Spirit." The latter work, a rather large and red rose, invoked a feeling of sorrow in the crimson-eyed stranger. She couldn't understand why.


The girl whirled about, heart beating faster.

"W-who's there?"

The only answer she received was the whisper of the wind.

Oh geez, I'm going to regret this...

She stepped forward tentatively, reaching into her purse for her keys. If there was some sort of deranged bum hiding in the darker corners of the gallery, she wasn't going down without a fight.


The few remaining beams of daylight revealed... a splattered orange.


She pocketed the jangly keys. No point in starting a fisticuffs with an innocuous piece of fruit. She continued her stride down the somber hall, contemplating the events of her evening.

"So... uh... do you like... art?"


She sighed again. Another unsuccessful blind date.

As she wandered further through the building, passing other mysterious artworks of a woman getting the newspaper and a sleeping, forgotten portrait, her mind roamed and she couldn't help but wonder: what was she doing here?


Her skirt whipped about her pale legs as she spun around, eyes scanning the room for some other life form.


She must be hearing things, some sort of trick her mind was conjuring up out of unnecessary fear. Yes, that was it. Just her imagination.

She glanced out the window. The sun had set, and the moon was rising. While she regularly enjoyed stargazing, tonight would not be an interesting sight.

A starless sky.

For no reason at all, she felt a sense of foreboding.

She ought to head home.

Behind her, she could hear something knocking against wood. The taps were definitely not her imagination this time, she was sure of it.

Slowly, she turned. And gasped.

On the ground, words were written in a red liquid: