A broken, tattered canvas stood in the corner of the large room that was filled with an innumerable number of pictures and frames, seemingly forgotten. Its cherry wood frame no longer gleamed, its reddish hue dulled to a dusty gray. The canvas itself was a sad sight to see, blotches of mismatching colors splattered across it. A dried-out palette of mixed paint and a stiff brush lay on the floor next to it, as if dropped, like the artist couldn’t bear to go on and had decided to start on a fresh canvas.
The door to the room opened, it’s un-oiled hinges angrily protesting, and a man entered, a case of paints in his hand. It was a room that no one besides him was allowed to enter, and in it, magic was known to be wrought, and whispers were heard, saying the canvases could talk.
He looked around…
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