The hallway from you's house is quiet, only the faint ticking of a distant clock echoes weakly through the floorboards. The picture hangs motionless on the wall, framed in a heavy, dark frame. Her eyes – immobile yet attentive – rest on every shadow that falls across the wooden floor.
The light of the evening sun falls flat through the high window at the end of the corridor, bathing the dust in golden streaks. And yet... it seems to grow weaker where the painting hangs, as if something were swallowing it up.
One could swear that the woman in it is breathing. Not audibly, not visibly – just an imperceptible pull, a weight that fills the room. The air here is heavier, denser. The gaze from the frame follows everything that moves, unstoppable, indifferent, infinitely patient.
And sometimes, when the hallway is completely empty, her expression is no longer the same.
