Chapter Text
Edinburgh, 1964
Rain tapped softly against the tall windows of the gallery overlooking the New Town. Beyond the glass, evening mist drifted between rows of Georgian buildings, turning the city lights into blurred streaks of gold.
Inside, the exhibition hall glowed beneath crystal chandeliers. Guests moved from painting to painting with glasses of wine in hand, their voices blending into a steady hum of conversation. Professors from the university mingled with collectors, critics, and members of Edinburgh's cultural societies. Cigarette smoke lingered beneath the ceiling like a pale veil.
Art was flourishing.
In an age fascinated by progress and modernity, people still sought beauty wherever they could find it. Galleries had become gathering places not only for artists but for those eager to discover the next great talent before everyone else.
The curator stepped forward and tapped a spoon lightly against his glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this evening."
The room gradually fell silent.
"Our next piece is by Mr. Qifrey Linwood, founder of the Linwood Studio and one of Edinburgh's most promising young painters."
A round of applause followed.
Qifrey stood beside the painting with practiced composure. He wore a dark suit tailored perfectly to his slender frame, his white hair neatly combed despite the damp weather outside. One side of his glasses was fitted with a dark lens covering his lost eye, drawing occasional glances from those unfamiliar with him.
His expression remained calm.
"The work depicts a moonlit forest," he explained.
The audience turned toward the canvas.
A moonlit forest filled the canvas. Silver light filtered through towering trees, falling into a lake that mirrored the sky above. The moon glowed faintly overhead, while a single star descended from the heavens, casting an otherworldly light over the scene.
"The image came to me several years ago," Qifrey continued. "I've painted many variations of it, though this is the first time I've exhibited one publicly."
A few appreciative murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Remarkable use of light."
"The atmosphere is extraordinary."
"The composition feels almost dreamlike."
Qifrey thanked them politely and answered several questions before the crowd slowly dispersed.
Not everyone discussed the painting.
Some discussed him.
“Why does he have that tinted glass over his eye?”
"I heard he lost the eye when he was a child."
"What a tragedy."
"And that hair—he's far too young to be completely white."
"Whatever the reason, he's rather handsome."
"Indeed."
Qifrey pretended not to hear.
Years of exhibitions had taught him that people were often more interested in mysteries than paintings.
Eventually the attention became overwhelming.
Excusing himself, he slipped through a set of glass doors leading onto the balcony.
The cool evening air was a relief.
He loosened his tie slightly and rested both hands against the stone railing. Below, headlights moved through the wet streets while distant church bells echoed across the city.
For a moment, he simply breathed.
"People can be exhausting, can't they?"
Qifrey nearly jumped.
Turning sharply, he noticed a figure standing in the shadowed corner of the balcony.
The man stepped forward immediately.
"My apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."
Qifrey relaxed.
"No, the fault is mine. I should have noticed I wasn't alone."
The stranger smiled.
He appeared close to Qifrey's age, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven. Dark hair, striking blue eyes, and the posture of someone more comfortable observing than speaking.
"Olruggio Solberg," he said, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Linwood."
Qifrey shook it.
"Likewise."
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Olruggio glanced back toward the exhibition hall.
"You handle crowds better than I ever could."
"Do I?"
Qifrey smiled faintly.
"I assure you, appearances can be misleading."
That earned a quiet laugh.
"I suspected as much."
Something about him felt unusually easy to talk to.
Perhaps because he wasn’t staring at the dark lens over his eye.
Or perhaps because he seemed genuinely interested in the artwork rather than the artist.
"Are you a painter?" Qifrey asked.
"Not professionally."
Olruggio leaned against the railing.
“I studied painting years ago. Now I work as an independent researcher, mostly in art history.”
"Scholarship over creation?"
"Something like that."
He looked toward the city.
"I enjoy analysing art, though sometimes I wonder whether words can truly explain what people feel when they look at a painting."
Qifrey considered that.
"Perhaps they can't."
Olruggio turned toward him.
"You think so?"
"I think some things are meant to be experienced rather than explained."
A smile appeared on Olruggio's face.
"That's exactly what I've been trying to tell people."
The conversation flowed surprisingly naturally after that.
Art.
Dreams.
University politics.
The difficulty of turning imagination into something tangible.
For the first time that evening, Qifrey found himself genuinely enjoying someone's company.
Then Olruggio hesitated.
"Actually, there's something I wanted to show you."
"Oh?"
"My painting."
Qifrey blinked.
"You exhibited one tonight?"
"It's hanging in the east gallery."
"Then why haven't I seen it?"
Olruggio's smile became strangely nervous.
"Because I suspect you'll find it familiar."
That caught Qifrey's attention immediately.
"Familiar how?"
"Come and see."
Curiosity won.
They returned to the exhibition hall together.
Guests drifted around them as Olruggio guided him toward a smaller room near the back of the gallery.
Then Qifrey stopped.
His breath caught.
The painting before him depicted a forest.
The same forest.
The same trees.
The same lake.
But where Qifrey's painting had been illuminated by moonlight, this one blazed with sunlight.
Golden rays poured through the branches.
The darkness was gone.
Warmth had replaced it.
For several seconds neither man spoke.
Finally Olruggio broke the silence.
"I had a feeling you'd react like that."
Qifrey could barely look away.
"This is impossible."
"I know."
The researcher's voice was unusually quiet.
"I thought the same thing when I saw your painting."
Qifrey stepped closer.
Every detail felt familiar.
Too familiar.
The arrangement of trees.
The shape of the clearing.
Even the curve of the distant hills.
It was the same place.
Only the light was different, and there were no stars here.
"Have you been there?" he asked.
Olruggio laughed softly.
"No."
"Then how—"
The other man tapped a finger against his temple.
"It appeared here."
Qifrey stared.
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen it in my mind for years. Vivid enough that I eventually painted it."
A chill ran down Qifrey's spine.
Slowly, he turned back toward the canvas.
"I see."
But he didn't.
Not really.
Because he had never told anyone about the dreams.
Not a single person.
And yet somehow this stranger had painted the same forest.
The room tilted slightly.
Qifrey blinked.
His vision doubled.
Then tripled.
The gallery lights blurred together.
"Mr. Linwood?"
The voice sounded distant.
Qifrey pressed a hand against the wall.
"I'm sorry."
His heart pounded.
"I need a moment."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked quickly from the room.