WHISPERS BENEATH THE CANVAS

CHAPTER 7 ( Part 1 )

A cool breeze brushed against Aizal's face.

She slowly opened her eyes.

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the fresh scent of wet earth. In front of her stood a tall iron gate, its dark bars disappearing into a blanket of mist. Everything beyond it was hidden.

She frowned.

"Where am I...?"

Silence answered.

Her fingers tightened around something in her hand.

The paintbrush.

She looked down at it, confused. She couldn't remember bringing it with her, yet it felt strangely familiar in her grip.

A faint metallic sound broke the silence.

Click.

Her eyes snapped back to the gate.

The old lock had opened on its own.

The gate shifted slightly, leaving just enough space for someone to walk through.

Aizal didn't move.

A cold wind drifted through the opening, carrying with it a feeling she couldn't explain.

It wasn't fear.

It was... recognition.

As though this place had been waiting for her.

She took a cautious step forward.

The moment she reached the gate, her feet refused to move any farther.

She frowned and tried again.

Nothing.

It felt as though an invisible barrier stood between her and the entrance.

She stretched out a hand.

Her fingertips never reached the iron bars.

Something unseen held her back.

Confused, she looked through the narrow opening.

An old mansion stood quietly in the distance.

Its windows were dark.

Its walls carried the weight of countless forgotten years.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

Then—

A little girl ran into the garden.

She couldn't have been older than six or seven.

Her laughter echoed softly through the silent night as she chased a paper windmill spinning in the breeze.

A young boy followed behind her, smiling as he tried to catch up.

The sight was so ordinary...

Yet something inside Aizal tightened.

She didn't know either of them.

So why did watching them make her eyes sting?

The little girl suddenly stopped.

She turned towards the gate.

For one brief moment...

It felt as though she was looking directly at Aizal.

Aizal's heart skipped a beat.

She instinctively raised her hand.

"Wait..."

Before another word could leave her lips, a wave of thick mist swept across the garden.

The children disappeared.

The laughter faded.

The garden stood empty once again.

Aizal looked around desperately.

There was no sign that anyone had ever been there.

Her breathing grew uneven.

Slowly, her gaze shifted towards the stone pillar beside the gate.

An old metal plate was fixed to it.

Something was engraved across its surface.

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read the faded letters.

But the distance... the rust... the mist...

Everything blurred together.

Just as she tried to focus—

A sharp pain shot through her head.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

A white swing moved gently beneath a large tree.

Tiny hands covered in bright colours.

Someone calling out...

A child's laughter.

Then—

Everything shattered into darkness.

The paintbrush slipped from her hand.

The moment it struck the ground—

Aizal woke with a sudden gasp.

She sat upright in bed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The room was silent.

Only the faint glow of dawn filtered through the curtains.

She pressed a hand against her forehead, trying to hold on to the dream before it slipped away.

But the faces of the two children...

Were already fading from her memory.

All that remained was the strange feeling that she had seen them before.

Somewhere.

Somehow.

Aizal looked towards the wooden box resting quietly on her bedside table.

For the first time...

She wasn't sure whether she wanted answers.

Or whether she was afraid of finding them.By the time Aizal reached school, the dream had settled quietly at the back of her mind.

She had tried convincing herself it was nothing more than a restless night, but every now and then the image of the old iron gate found its way back into her thoughts.

"Good morning, Miss Aizal!"

A cheerful chorus greeted her the moment she stepped into the art classroom.

She smiled warmly.

"Good morning, everyone."

The children hurried to their seats, placing paintboxes and sketchbooks on their desks. Within moments, the room was filled with excited chatter.

Aizal clapped her hands lightly.

"Alright, little artists. Today I want each of you to paint a place that makes you feel peaceful. It can be somewhere you've visited, or somewhere you've imagined."

The children eagerly picked up their brushes.

Soon, colours began spreading across white sheets.

As always, every painting told a different story.

One child painted a beach.

Another painted a garden full of butterflies.

Someone proudly announced they were painting their grandmother's village.

Aizal moved from desk to desk, praising every effort.

"Beautiful colours, Areeba."

"I love these mountains, Zayan."

"And Bilal..." she smiled, "...your trees are purple."

Bilal grinned.

"I got bored of green."

The entire class laughed.

Aizal shook her head, smiling.

"I'll allow it... just this once."

As she turned to the next row, a quiet voice stopped her.

"Miss Aizal..."

It was Hamza.

One of the calmest children in the class.

He looked up at her with uncertain eyes.

"I don't like bright colours."

Aizal crouched beside his desk.

"That's alright. Every artist has colours they enjoy."

He nodded before pointing towards his paper.

"I only used grey."

Aizal looked down.

The painting wasn't dark or frightening.

It showed an old pathway disappearing into soft grey mist. In the distance stood the outline of a large building, but the details were impossible to make out.

Everything blended gently into shades of grey.

She studied it for a few seconds.

"It has a peaceful feeling," she said.

Hamza smiled a little.

"My grandfather says fog hides stories."

Aizal looked at him with curiosity.

"Does he?"

He nodded.

"He says... when the fog goes away, the story comes back."

For reasons she couldn't explain, his words stayed with her.

"They're beautiful words," she said softly.

Hamza looked relieved.

"I thought you wouldn't like my painting because it isn't colourful."

Aizal smiled and gently patted his shoulder.

"Art isn't about using the most colours."

He listened carefully.

"It's about making people feel something."

A slow smile spread across his face.

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will."

Just then, the school bell rang, signalling the end of the period.

The children immediately became restless.

"One at a time," Aizal laughed. "Leave your paintings on your desks. They'll be dry before you take them home."

The students hurried out of the classroom, filling the corridor with cheerful voices.

Within minutes, the room became quiet again.

Aizal began arranging the paint bottles and cleaning the tables.

Just as she picked up the last brush, someone walked into the classroom.

"Still working?"

Aizal looked up and smiled.

"Amna."

Her friend leaned against the doorway with folded arms.

"I've been waiting for ten minutes."

"You should've come in."

"And interrupt your little artists? Never."

Aizal laughed.

"They've only just left."

Amna's eyes wandered across the paintings covering the desks.

"They've done well."

"They always surprise me."

She picked up Hamza's painting once more before placing it carefully with the others.

For a brief moment...

Her eyes lingered on the grey mist in the distance.

Something about it felt strangely familiar.

Before she could think about it any longer, Amna spoke again.

"Come on."

"The tea in the staff room will be finished if we're any later."

Aizal smiled, picked up her lesson folder, and followed her out of the classroom, gently switching off the lights before closing the door behind her.The staff room was livelier than usual.

A few teachers were discussing the upcoming school exhibition, while others marked notebooks over cups of tea.

Amna placed two mugs on the table before taking a seat across from Aizal.

"I knew I'd find you cleaning paintbrushes after class."

Aizal smiled.

"You know me too well."

"I do."

Amna took a sip of tea before looking at her more carefully.

"But something's different today."

Aizal raised an eyebrow.

"Different?"

"You've been distracted since morning."

"I'm just a little tired."

"Tired?"

Amna gave her a doubtful look.

"You've been staring out of the classroom window every five minutes.”