She paints every day. She paints for the love of beautiful things. She paints to bring those beautiful things to life: the flowers that grace the meadows outside her cottage; the forests that stand tall on the highest mountains; the animals that wander curiously through the wilderness, often close enough for her to see with her own eyes.
Today, she still paints. The living room is quiet, empty, and yet so alive. The colours are vibrant on her easel, becoming even more so as her brush sweeps carefully across the paper. It is a deer she draws: a beautiful doe with eyes like chocolate buttons, fur as pristine and soft as a hairbrush, and a stance as proud as a queen upon her throne.
She smiles with pride; not from her painting skills, but from the beauty that she is able to replicate with her bare hands. Other people will not have this luxury. They live in stuffy, urban cities, cramped in-between swarms of businessmen, tech-geeks, and ugly buildings that shield them from the world outside. She is lucky, she thinks. She lives in a place where she is free to express herself, free to walk wherever she pleases, and privileged enough to see the world's wonders with the naked eye.
Her gaze locks with the deer's as she emphasizes its colours with the brown paint. She remembers clearly how it looked at her when she saw it only the day before: shy, startled, ever so still, and yet peaceful. She would even go as far as saying that the eyes looked kind. She wasn't sure how she could tell, but somehow… she could just feel it.
And that kindly gaze is in existence once again, thanks to the magic of a paintbrush. The brown eyes seem to connect with her own, as if the animal is standing right in front of her. The painting is more than just a memory: it is a demonstration of reality.
Her thoughts are momentarily knocked off-balance as her ginger cat, Rupert, slides affectionately between her bare legs. She smiles, pausing in her work to lean down and stroke his fur with her free hand. She loves the sound of his delicate paws patting against the wooden floor, and the way his vivid green eyes stare expressively into her own.
A moment later, however, as she focuses again on her work, she notices the sound of his paws becoming muffled. Her paintbrush slows to a halt, her ears becoming alert to the atmosphere around her. A new set of footsteps echoes into the room, seemingly from nowhere. It sounded nothing like a cat, nor any animal of that size.
Calmly, she turns, her white skirt twirling as she does so. The source of the heavy clopping stands still in front of her. It is a doe, much like the one she paints in her picture. Strangely, it seems completely at ease in her presence, not at all worried about being in a human being's home.
How can this be? She wonders. How did she get in?
Deciding to ignore the questions in her mind, she gently takes a step forward. The animal is not alarmed – she stares peacefully at the girl before her, ears raised high above her head with curiosity. Paintbrush by her side, she reaches a hand towards the deer's snout. And amazingly, her fingers make easy contact with it, allowing her to feel its moist surface and the steady breath that warms her skin.
She is real. She is most definitely real. This is no trick. And it is only confirmed more by the meaningful and almost human-like look in the doe's brown eyes. The girl's own eyes are overcome with sparkling fascination. She has never known an animal to be so calm in a human's presence, especially due to how evil the members of her species could potentially be. This feels like it should be a dream, but she knows in her heart it isn't.
Giving the creature a warm smile, she turns her head to look at the painting she was working on.
But something about it has completely changed.
Instead of a doe standing in the wilderness… there is only an empty meadow. Still beautiful, of course, but empty of any creatures, except for the butterflies she placed so carefully into the scene like little fireflies.
She blinks with astonishment. She knows for a fact the painting is hers, since she has not touched it any way. Something has merely been taken out of it.
With disbelief, her eyes return to the living, breathing animal beside her, her hand still sitting comfortably on its nose. The brown eyes appear to twinkle with knowing mischief, regarding her with an almost analytical nature.
It is impossible to believe it, she thinks. It goes against everything she truly knows. But now is not the time to deny it. She is too happy. Bewildered, but happy. She painted for the love of living things, and now those living things have come to her out of that very love.
