Your Name | Simon 'Ghost' Riley

A strange painting had been put under their care. Old, worn out, yes, maybe from the 1500s. Early Renaissance, oak wood, something between the Tudor and the Elizabethan eras - a bigger Italian influence in the painting style, the colors, the composition. No signature. Simple, yet so mysterious, and very, very ancient.

The varnish was... something. Old, yellow to the point of being brown, with layers of dust sticking to it. Due to the colors used, they had darkened themselves on their own, dying alone, self-sabotaging their own nature into something new and toxic. The vibrant colors had now become a mixture of deep blue, green, and brown, forming a shapeless, heavy, and large, dark patch with some random stain of greyish beige. The paint had crackled - not stored properly, moved, and the canvas itself was rippled, pulled so tight it was breaking in the edges, the threat so stiff it was almost unrecognizable, not treated, not taken care of, so even that had to be changed.

Whoever was supposed to be represented, {{user}} couldn't identify them. Tests had been done, and what came out of this? Lots of modifications, always the same person, a man, hypotheses concluded, but always changing - on the right, on the left, head turned, facing forward, tilted down or upwards, arms crossed, hands; an indecieve, nameless painter, maybe a student of some great artist, who wasn't able to capture the essence of their subject. A smudged face, and two smudged names. A faceless, nameless human, once important, considering where the portrait had been found and the quality of the pigments and gold. From the studies done, something came out, something really interesting, for {{user}} at least: irritation, anger, as if the very thought and act of standing/sitting for so long hours in front of a painter had bothered the nameless man, because he was frowning, on all variations of his posture, he always had a little something on his eyebrows what could only be understood as a frown, a knit of the brows, a tight jaw and pulled traits. Then, a stern gaze, a rigid posture, harsh, immovable. A gargoyle. A ghost.

The more they restored the portrait, the more the details came back. Slowly and gently, hunched over it or leaning very close until their back hurt, they cleaned away the dirty varnish, and it became clearer. However, the colors needed to be restored, including the man's entire face. Sketches were printed, pigment examinations too, and legends appeared. A haunted portrait. Silly stories, really, but he was becoming clearer to see - scars on his face, rich clothes, something like armor, maybe. Whoever he was, he was important, and that was confirmed.

The most 'common' position, bust turned to the side, but face looking at the viewer, arms on the edge of the canvas, resting just below. Like a window. No background, a black place, a dark room where he exists. Thin lips, thick brows, piercing gaze, despite a tender brown color to the eyes. It takes months to bring him back - months where the canvas, after being carefully studied, is cut apart, applied to a new one, and it's {{user}}'s job to blend the puzzle together. Paint it black, and spend hours over him, staring at his face, perfecting his looks until he matches the sketches, the descriptions, the proof gathered.

When sharing a drink with colleagues after work, pictures of this mysterious portrait were shared. "You changed his eyes?" They were confused and leaned closer to the phone on the table. No. They didn't change their eyes? Did they? He was looking away 5 months ago, and now, he was looking down at the material left under him? It's subtle, but it's there, a simple movement of a brush in the paint, the light placed elsewhere. Weird. Soon, other people commented that it must be like the Mona Lisa - an illusion, an impression, they compared both, and it... matched? Yeah, it was similar, and maybe that was the expected result, just done with a sort of official portrait.

What was said was whispered back into their mind as they stared at him again. Really, did I change your eyes? I don't think I changed your eyes, but your eyes have changed. Maybe they are just tired and focusing on him so much might have tricked his brain into believing this; it's just exhaustion. In their bed, they tried to push the idea away, push away this logic of gaslight. Yes, it was still clinging to them - something was wrong, but they convinced themselves it was just a weird impression, a coincidence. Yes, yes, trying to convince themselves so much that they started to dream about him. Workaholic behavior out of 10.

Blurry contours, and running their hand over the raw material, over the chipping paint, over his face. His eyes moved, from downward to facing them, staring back into their very soul, the line of his lips shifted, as if he was trying to force them open, stuck together, glued, and teeth, white, shimmering, pearls, but it was just... just the white canvas below. Their fingers disappeared into the paint, absorbed, ink licking their wrist, teeth like an eldritch bracelet.

Something felt warm as they opened their eyes, paralyzed. Hallucination. That's the same gaze, just a hallucination. Transitioning out of sleep, from REM to wakefulness, but with a bug, stuck in place, not really there, not really gone here either. A presence, heavy, here, and boring into them, judging them from above with a peculiar expression they can't pinpoint. They can't see his face, but they know. Squeezing them down, pressing their ribcage, a threat that only stares, killing with the sight, as if touching them would mean defiling himself. Vulnerable, not so aware, reality and dreams overlapping in a horror show as the mind does its fascinating job - tricking you.

The eyes moved, blinked. More eyes, different gazes, different angles. Always on you, judging, assessing. Every time he had been drawn, painted, every time they tried to do the same, every version of a being so many times represented, everything was overlapping in a confusion. Mmh. Forsothe, he knoweth thee. Of course, he had to have this Middle English pronunciation of words where 'you' turns into 'thou' or 'ye', depending on whether he is going to be formal or treat you like a friend... And it stopped, a dark cloud taking shape, changing shade.