The Girl Who Shouldn’t Have Survived

ELENA’S POV The gallery smelled like fresh paint and quiet ambition. Soft jazz drifted through the air, the kind of music people pretended to enjoy while calculating the price of talent. I stood in the center of the room, pretending my lungs weren’t tightening with every passing second. My painting hung on the far wall—bold strokes of red, deep shadows, and a single silhouette of a woman reaching out toward something just beyond the canvas. People walked past it with murmurs of fascination, but it wasn’t pride I felt. It was… unease. Like a memory was pressing against the back of my skull, begging to be let out. “Your work is haunting,” a woman told me, touching my arm lightly. “What inspired it?” I smiled the practiced smile I had worn all night. “Emotion, I guess. Instinct.” If only I could explain the truth, that I woke from nightmares with images burned into my mind, and I painted them before they faded. That sometimes I wondered if what I saw in my sleep were memories instead of dreams. I drifted from group to group, muttering the same polite responses until my cheeks hurt. My foster mother used to tell me I had a gift. But sometimes this gift felt like a burden, especially when my paintings revealed emotions I didn’t understand. I turned toward the entrance, and froze. A man stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been built for him alone. His hair was dark, his jaw sharp, but it was his eyes that pinned me in place. Cold gray. Unmoving. Searching. His gaze went from me to my painting. Then back to me. The muscles in his jaw tightened. His hand curled into a fist. Why did he look like he knew me? Before I could make sense of it, he turned and walked deeper into the gallery. He moved through the crowd with quiet command, drawing attention without asking for it. People stepped aside for him without realizing it. I felt a strange urge to follow him but held myself still. I didn’t know him. And yet… something about him made my skin prickle. Nova suddenly appeared beside me, her red lipstick sharp against her brown skin. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Maybe I have,” I whispered. “Who?” she asked, craning her neck to scan the room. “That man. Tall, gray eyes. Suit that screams too much money.” Nova let out a low whistle. “Girl, that’s Damian Voss. His family sponsored this exhibition.” The name felt familiar. Heavy. Like it carried a memory I couldn’t reach. “Why is he looking at my painting like he’s about to pass out?” I asked. “If he passes out, we grab his wallet,” Nova joked, but I barely heard her. Damian Voss. I tried saying the name silently. It felt wrong on my tongue. Like a word I shouldn’t know. I turned back to the painting, my stomach tight. The image stared back at me like a puzzle piece I had forgotten how to use. A woman crying. A dark figure in a doorway. A smear of red. A memory. No. A dream. That’s what Emilia always told me. I was prone to vivid dreams. But as I watched Damian Voss staring at the canvas from across the room, something in me whispered that it wasn’t a dream at all. I tried to shake off the tension as the event dragged on. Whenever I glanced at Damian, he was already watching me. His expression never changed. It was carved from stone. If he smiled, the world would probably explode. By the time I slipped outside for air, my chest felt tight. The night was cold, crisp, and the city lights glowed like scattered stars. I hugged myself, letting the quiet settle over me. A faint sound behind me made me turn. Damian stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. His voice was deep, smooth, too calm for someone who had been glaring at me all night. “You weren’t inside anymore,” I said, trying to keep my tone steady. “Did you want something?” His gaze flicked to the street before returning to me. “Your painting.” He paused. “Where did you get the inspiration?” I shrugged. “Images that come to me.” “That specific image?” His voice sharpened. “The woman. The room.” I frowned. “Why? Do you recognize it?” He went perfectly still. “No.” It was a lie. I felt it. The air between us shifted with tension. Something cold slid down my spine. “Look,” I said, taking a step back. “It’s just a painting. People see all sorts of things in art.” “Not this,” he murmured. A car honked at the corner, snapping me out of the strange spell his presence cast over me. I took another step back. “I should go inside.” “Elena,” he called softly. I froze. We had never been introduced. “How do you know my name?” His jaw flexed. “It’s on the brochure.” Lie number two. Before I could say anything, someone else opened the gallery door, flooding the sidewalk with light and noise. Damian stepped back, fading into the shadows like he belonged there. I hurried inside. But even surrounded by people again, I couldn’t stop trembling. Not from fear, exactly… but from the unsettling feeling that something in my life had just shifted. Something big. When the event finally ended, I packed up my things. Nova left early for drinks with friends, promising she’d call me tomorrow. The gallery owner congratulated me again before heading out with investors. I walked to my car, heels clicking against the pavement. The night felt colder now. Heavier. I unlocked my driver’s door, slid in, and exhaled in relief. Then I pressed my foot on the brake pedal. It sank too easily. Too quickly. Something clicked. Something was wrong. My heart lurched. Before fear fully hit me, a loud crack echoed from beneath the car. The world spun. Metal screeched. Glass shattered. And everything went black.