Ever since the visit at that gallery there seemed to be something different in her. For one, there had been a lemon candy in her pocket. Considering she hated those, it was very unlikely that she should find one in her pocket. She didn't always hate them; but they now appeared to install a sense of despair in her. Then came the fact that she couldn't look at a rose without watering it and cried if she saw a wilted one; red roses too but especially blue ones. And when she had suddenly had a craving for macaroons, to say that her parents looked at her strangely was the understatement of the year. Among these, were other bizarre happenings: she rapidly grew a fond passion for the outdoors and the sun, which she seemed to think, may disappear; she absolutely hated all crayons and she had a particular disliking for palette knifes. Not that there was much occasion to use one. The Guertena gallery had certainly established a mountain of questions in her mind that were indisputably impossible to answer.
Her parents had always told her that she would find the answer in her heart. But how could she look into her own heart? Surely that wasn't possible. Little did Ib know, that it wouldn't be for several years until she discovered the true meaning of this. However, even then, it did not come as an answer, more as a revelation.
Four years later, Ib celebrated her thirteenth birthday. About to enter into teenage life, she didn't feel ready. Inside, she still felt like the shy girl who nudged her mother's shoulder to say something or the confused one who still read all the names in galleries even if she didn't know the words. In fact, talking about art, it was her favourite subject. Easily. Sciences on the other hand; she shuddered. And it was most certainly not because of the chilling breeze that rushed between the leaves of trees as she walked to school. Only natural it was getting colder however; after all, it was January. It was the first day back after a rejuvenating holiday; sadly, their art teacher was leaving for maternity leave. Well, in a way, Ib wasn't all too sad to see Mrs. Clef leave considering she hated the woman. However, a substitute teacher may not know much to do about art, and that could make the lessons worse. Ib was certainly about to be proved wrong. Not only did the teacher know about art, he knew Ib. The only problem was, he had forgotten it. It truly was a case of memories crannies.
AN: AN: I decided to write either a one-shot or a multi-chapter fic for each ending of Ib and this was one of the first endings I got so I started with this one. I hope you enjoyed - feedback is always appreciated! Next part should be up in a day or two.