9

The man led the way in silence, Allan following, every step a drumbeat of anticipation. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm, a chaotic counterpoint to the steady thrum of his own blood. This was it. The moment he'd clung to for three agonizing years. He was finally going to meet Lulu.

The path, barely a deer trail, curled behind the hut and plunged into a tight cluster of trees. A sudden, unnatural coldness seeped through the branches, prickling Allan's skin. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind, everything to do with the icy tendrils of fear snaking through his chest. Above, birds chirped, their innocent calls oblivious to the burgeoning storm within him.

They emerged into a compound, ringed by the same thicket, where a large stone mansion loomed in the center. The man stopped at the entrance, turning with a smile that stitched itself too wide, too unnatural. "We are here. The one you seek is inside." The smile twitched, a subtle ripple Allan, his heart seized by a vise of unmanageable emotion, utterly missed.

Allan stepped forward, breath held captive in his lungs. Each step up the grand stairs was a leaden weight. He reached for the heavy door, pushing it inward. A wave of warm, sweet lavender washed over him, a surprising balm that momentarily soothed his frayed nerves. He glanced back; the man offered a brief, approving nod.

Then he saw her.

She sat at a study table in a far corner, sunlight catching the silky strands of her hair. The room's luxurious furnishings blurred into an irrelevant backdrop. Only she mattered. Shadows of three other figures flickered on a door leading elsewhere, but his world had shrunk to this one woman. His knees threatened to buckle, but sheer will, the desperate yearning to reach his beloved, kept him upright.

"Lulu?" His voice was a raw rasp, fragile, barely there.

The girl stood, turning slowly.

And his world shattered.

The posture, the poise—they were Lulu's, yes, but in a thousand subtle ways, she was fundamentally different. Her face, a face he'd meticulously held onto for three years, a face he knew better than his own, could not belong to her. This woman was beautiful, undeniably so, yet her features were finer, her eyes sharper, her expression holding no hint of recognition. Only surprise. Lulu's face was longer, her lips a less full, her hips less wide, a softness he craved. This was someone else.

"Father, who is this?" she asked, her gaze flicking to the man, whose excitement seemed unsettlingly keen.

"Ah, daughter, it is like this..." Before he could finish, his eyes met Allan's.

Allan's gaze was a blazing warning. His tongue felt like a stone in his mouth, paralyzed by the bitter bloom of betrayal in his chest.

"Where's Lulu?" The words finally tore free, hoarse and ragged.

The girl, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion, looked at Allan with a gentle sympathy. "She's not here. Whoever that is, she was never here."

The world tilted. Allan felt a primal urge to drop to the floor and sob, to empty the aching chasm in his heart. A lump rose in his throat, choking off any further sound. His mouth gaped, desperate to release the storm raging within, but only tears came. Hot, silent streams traced paths down his cheeks, a warmth he barely registered.

He should have known, when he'd met the man yesterday in his humble hut. If only Allan had truly seen with his eyes, his spirit painter's eyes, truly understood the subtle deceptions hidden in plain sight, he wouldn't be standing here, hollowed out by this agonizing truth.

A fleeting image flashed in his mind's eye: Lulu, smiling, her hand outstretched, inviting him to a place he couldn't name. For a maddening second, he longed to reach out, to grasp her hand, but he knew she wasn't truly there. Her proximity in his mind, yet her utter absence in reality, blurred his vision with fresh tears.

The man stepped closer, seemingly oblivious to the wreckage he'd wrought. "This is my daughter," he said softly, an unmistakable pride in his voice. "Her name is Canya."

Allan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, turning sharply. "You lied to me."

"I did what I had to," the man replied, unashamed. "Had I told you the truth, you wouldn't have come."

Allan waved a dismissive hand, the man's words falling on deaf ears. He didn't care for justifications.

"You needed a reason, and she," the man gestured toward Canya, "needed a man. A man foretold by our seers for ages. A spirit painter."

His words, meant to soothe, only intensified Allan's rage. Yet, they had a profound effect on Canya. Her eyes widened, her mouth parting in silent astonishment. The pieces clicked into place. After her previous heartbreaks, she'd been told to be patient, that her true love would arrive, a man who would free her from her worries. She had suspected a connection to her father's secretive prophecies, but she hadn't expected this.

Allan's hands clenched into fists. "So you thought a spirit painter on his journey would make do?" A bitter, wicked smile twisted his anguished face. "I came for Lulu," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "not for some ancient words whispered by your seers. Not for this."

The man took another step forward. "And yet, you are here. Is that not worth asking why?"

Allan had no answer. His heart was a maelstrom of confusion, fury, and a strange, unnamable pull. He met the man's gaze. "I'm leaving. My place is with Lulu, not your daughter."

Canya stepped forward, close enough for him to discern the faint lines of worry etched on her otherwise calm face. "You don't have to stay," she said, her voice soft but earnest. A flicker of hope, of belief that this was indeed the man she'd been promised, shone in her eyes. Her father's desperate lengths to bring him here spoke volumes. "But perhaps, before you leave, you could sit... for a little while."

Allan stood frozen, caught between the ghost of the woman who haunted his past and the very real, very unknown woman before him – strangely luminous in the daylight.

His spirit stirred.

And he didn't know why.