The Empty Canvas
Some paintings are not created… they return.”
There are wounds that never truly heal.
Some live quietly inside us… waiting for a voice, a touch, a memory.
And sometimes, loneliness loves us back in the darkest ways.
Nemal loved colors the way children love toys.
While others saw paint, she saw pulse.
Every shade whispered stories to her.
Crimson carried rage.
Grey smelled of grief.
Blue… always sounded lonely.
Her fingers danced across canvases like prayers soaked in color. Every exhibition she attended crowned her as the finest young artist in the city.
But that evening was different.
The gallery walls glittered with masterpieces, yet among all the famous names and dazzling frames, one painting stopped her heartbeat.
A woman.
Beautiful beyond words.
Pale skin. Silent lips.
And eyes…
Deep blue eyes drowning in sorrow, shining with tears that looked painfully alive.
Nemal stood frozen before it.
It did not feel painted.
It felt trapped.
The closer she moved, the heavier her chest became. It was as if the woman inside the portrait was carrying centuries of grief inside her gaze.
Without another thought, Nemal bought the painting and carried it home.
Her mansion already held dozens of rare artworks, but this one…
This one belonged in her bedroom.
She placed it beside her bed carefully, her fingertips brushing over the painted face with strange affection.
“You look tired,” she whispered softly.
For a moment…
she could have sworn the eyes looked relieved.
That night, rain tapped gently against the windows.
Nemal fell asleep beneath dim golden light and drifting shadows.
Somewhere between dreams and darkness…
She heard it.
A woman’s voice.
Soft.
Broken.
Loving.
A lullaby wrapped in pain.
“So ja na…
meri raaj dulaari…
so ja na…”
A cold hand rested against her shoulder.
Not frightening.
Motherly.
Warm in the saddest way possible.
Nemal’s breathing softened as tears slipped from her closed eyes. She had lost her mother years ago. Perhaps that is why the voice felt familiar enough to break her soul apart.
Half asleep, she whispered back like a child lost in time:
“So jaun gi…
magar chor kar mat jana, Maa…”
The lullaby continued.
Slow.
Gentle.
Endless.
And all night long…
Something cried beside her.
Morning arrived like nothing had happened.
Yet her shoulder was wet with tears.
Nemal stared at herself in the mirror, unsettled but silent. After showering, she stood before the painting with sleepy eyes and smiled faintly.
“Good morning, Mom.”
The word escaped naturally.
Her smile faded.
Mom?
Why had she called the painting “Mom”?
A strange chill crawled beneath her skin.
Still… she ignored it.
Night after night, the lullaby returned.
The voice grew closer.
The touch is colder.
The crying is heavier.
And each morning, her shoulder remained soaked with unseen tears.
Nemal stopped painting.
Stopped sleeping.
Stopped feeling alive during daylight.
But every night…
She waited for the voice.
Because loneliness is addictive when it sounds like love.
One final night, Nemal forced herself to stay awake.
No sleeping.
No dreams.
No hallucinations.
Just truth.
She lay still beneath the darkness, fists trembling beneath the blanket.
Minutes passed.
Then
“So ja na…
meri raaj dulaari…”
The voice came again.
Closer than ever.
Nemal’s eyes remained open.
This time…
She was awake.
A freezing hand slowly stroked her shoulder.
Another tear dropped onto her skin.
Then another.
And another.
Someone was sitting beside her.
Crying.
Breathing.
Smiling.
Nemal’s body locked in terror.
The lullaby cracked into something deeper now.
Something dead.
“Dar mat…
Maa yahin hai…”
With a scream, Nemal jerked upright and switched on the lights.
The room was empty.
Silent.
Still.
But her shoulder…
was drenched in tears.
Her shaking eyes slowly lifted toward the wall beside her bed.
And her blood turned cold.
The painting was gone.
Only the empty canvas frame remained hanging crookedly on the wall.
And beneath it…
in fresh blue paint…
were the words
“Tonight…
my daughter finally saw me.”
There should be a "Love" button for me to click on something this good!
Now, I have an exquisite example of what a short flash piece can be. One that is not horror, not terrifying, just oh so possible true. The kind of ghost story to tell sitting around the fire in the dark of night. Perfection!
What a close! Brilliant!