WHISPERS BENEATH THE CANVAS

CHAPTER 12

The room was silent.

Only the gentle rustling of the curtains broke the stillness as the cool night breeze slipped through the half-open window.

Aizal lay asleep, her phone resting on the bedside table beside the old wooden box.

Moonlight spilled softly across the room.

Then...

Darkness.

...

She was standing somewhere unfamiliar.

Or perhaps...

Somewhere she had forgotten.

A long stone corridor stretched before her.

Its walls were worn with age, the faded surface marked by countless passing years.

The air carried a faint scent of damp wood and dust.

Not a single sound disturbed the silence.

Aizal slowly looked around.

An old mansion.

The certainty settled inside her before she could explain why.

She had never been here.

Yet nothing felt unfamiliar.

It was as though her feet already knew where to go.

Without thinking, she took a slow step forward.

Then another.

The corridor opened into a spacious hall.

Tall windows stood covered by heavy curtains, allowing only thin ribbons of pale moonlight to slip inside.

Ancient portraits watched from the walls, their faces hidden beneath layers of shadow.

Everything around her felt frozen in time.

Ahead...

A broad wooden staircase rose toward the upper floor.

Aizal's heartbeat quickened.

She didn't know what waited upstairs.

But something inside her urged her to keep moving.

Slowly, she climbed the first step.

The old wood creaked beneath her feet.

Another step.

Then another.

The silence grew heavier with every floorboard she crossed.

Finally, she reached the landing.

A narrow corridor stretched into darkness.

Several closed doors stood on either side.

She found herself walking toward the very last door.

She didn't know why.

She simply knew...

That was where she needed to go.

When she finally stopped, her breathing had become slow and uneven.

The old wooden door stood firmly shut.

Her gaze shifted slightly...

To the wall beside it.

She froze.

There...

Painted neatly on the faded plaster...

Was the same five-petaled flower.

Every curve.

Every petal.

Every delicate line.

It was identical to the symbol carved onto the wooden box.

Identical to the one hidden in the corner of the painting at the exhibition.

Aizal slowly raised her hand.

Her fingertips moved closer...

Closer...

Until they were only inches away from the symbol.

The moment her fingers touched the wall—

A loud metallic sound echoed through the mansion.

Clang!

The silence shattered.

Aizal gasped.

Her eyes flew open.

She was back in her bedroom.

Morning sunlight filtered gently through the curtains.

Her breathing was uneven.

For several long moments, she remained perfectly still.

Then, almost instinctively...

Her eyes moved toward the wooden box resting quietly on the bedside table.

The carved flower caught the morning light.

Exactly as it had appeared in her dream.For several long moments, Aizal remained seated on the edge of her bed.

Morning sunlight quietly filled the room, but it did little to ease the uneasiness growing inside her.

She turned toward the bedside table.

The old wooden box rested exactly where she had left it.

Slowly, she reached for it.

Her fingers traced the carved five-petaled flower on its lid.

Every curve.

Every delicate line.

It was identical.

The symbol she had seen in the dream...

The same symbol hidden in the corner of the painting at the exhibition...

And now the same carving beneath her fingertips.

"This can't be a coincidence..."

The whisper escaped before she realized she had spoken aloud.

She carefully opened the wooden box.

Inside lay the mysterious paintbrush, untouched since the day the old woman had given it to her beneath the bridge.

She lifted it gently.

The silver and golden patterns along its handle caught the morning light.

Nothing looked different.

Nothing explained anything.

Yet, for the first time, the brush no longer felt like an unusual gift.

It felt like a question.

A question waiting for its answer.

Aizal quietly placed the brush back into the box and closed the lid.

Her thoughts returned to the exhibition.

To the forgotten painting.

To the strange symbol hidden where almost no one would notice it.

One thing had become clear.

She couldn't ignore it anymore.

If she wanted answers...

She would have to return.

---

After offering Fajr Salah, Aizal remained on the prayer mat for a little while longer.

"O Allah," she whispered, "if these signs mean something, guide me only toward the truth. Protect me from what is harmful, and never let my curiosity take me away from Your guidance."

A sense of calm settled over her heart.

Not because her questions had been answered...

But because she had entrusted them to Allah.

---

Breakfast was quieter than usual.

Mrs. Hashmi noticed her daughter drifting into thought more than once.

"Is everything alright, sweetheart?"

Aizal looked up with a gentle smile.

"I'm fine, Mama."

"You seem distracted."

"I've just been thinking about yesterday's exhibition."

Mr. Hashmi folded his newspaper.

"The children enjoyed it?"

"They did."

"There were some remarkable paintings there."

He smiled.

"Artists have a way of leaving pieces of themselves behind."

His words lingered in Aizal's mind.

Leaving pieces of themselves behind...

Almost as though the unknown artist had left that symbol for someone to find.

---

An hour later, Aizal stood once again outside the City Art Exhibition.

Unlike the previous day, the entrance was much quieter.

There were no excited children.

No teachers calling students into lines.

Only a handful of visitors wandered through the galleries at an unhurried pace.

She stepped inside.

The familiar scent of polished wood and aged canvas welcomed her.

Without wasting a moment, she walked toward the gallery where she had seen the abandoned forest painting.

Her heartbeat quickened with every step.

The painting still hung in the same place.

The towering trees.

The forgotten path.

The tiny white kitten perched on the branch.

And...

In the lower corner...

The five-petaled flower remained exactly where she remembered it.

This time, she moved closer.

Much closer.

Her eyes carefully studied every brushstroke around the symbol, hoping to notice something she had missed yesterday.

But before she could examine it further—

A familiar voice spoke behind her.

"I thought you might come back."

Aizal turned.

Standing a few steps away was Sara, the exhibition guide, wearing the same welcoming smile she had worn the day before.

"I had a feeling that painting had caught your attention."

Aizal looked back at the canvas before meeting Sara's eyes again.

"It did."

She paused briefly.

"Actually... I came back because I wanted to ask you something."Sara glanced at the painting before looking back at Aizal.

"I'll help if I can."

Aizal stepped closer to the canvas and pointed toward its lower-right corner.

"This symbol..."

Sara followed her gaze.

The small five-petaled flower was easy to miss unless someone knew where to look.

For a moment, Sara remained silent.

"You noticed it."

Aizal nodded.

"It doesn't look like the artist's signature."

"It isn't."

"You know about it?"

Sara gave a small, uncertain smile.

"Only a little."

Aizal waited patiently.

"I've worked here for almost three years," Sara began. "Visitors usually admire the painting itself. Very few ever notice that symbol."

"And when someone does?"

"They ask the same question you're asking now."

Aizal looked at the symbol again.

"So... what does it mean?"

Sara slowly shook her head.

"I honestly don't know."

Aizal's expression fell ever so slightly.

"But..." Sara continued, "I do remember hearing something a few months ago."

Aizal looked up immediately.

"What was it?"

"One of the senior curators mentioned that this symbol had appeared in an old newspaper article years ago."

"A newspaper?"

Sara nodded.

"I didn't read the article myself. I only overheard the conversation."

"Do you remember what it was about?"

"I'm afraid not."

She thought for a moment before adding,

"I only remember one thing."

"What?"

"The article was based on records kept in the City Library."

Silence settled between them.

"The City Library..." Aizal repeated quietly.

Sara nodded.

"Our curator once said that if anyone ever wanted to research the history behind some of the older paintings in this exhibition, the library was the best place to begin."

"Do they have records of the artists?"

"Sometimes."

"And old newspaper archives?"

"Yes."

Aizal lowered her eyes to the symbol once more.

A strange feeling stirred inside her.

It wasn't certainty.

It wasn't excitement.

It was the quiet feeling that she had just found the first real thread in a much larger mystery.

She looked back at Sara.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more."

"You've already helped more than you realise."

Sara smiled gently.

"I hope you find what you're looking for."

Aizal returned the smile, though her thoughts were already elsewhere.

The library.

An old newspaper.

The same symbol.

Individually, they meant very little.

Together...

They formed the first path that didn't end in another unanswered question.

With one last glance at the lonely forest painting, Aizal quietly turned and walked toward the exit.

Behind her, the tiny white kitten painted on the branch remained frozen in place, watching over the forgotten forest in eternal silence.