#iblein

                         What was the name of that artist, again?                                      …ah yes…                                                his name was                                                                    Ｇｕｅｒｔｅｎａ"Can you sing, Ib?" What a silly thing to ask of her at a time like this. Could the girl even hold a note at all? Wouldn’t it be ridiculing to force her to do something as embarrassing as that if she indeed could not hold a tune? That’d be nice. It would surely give Len something to laugh at through the agony of his struggling pain.Warmth still harmonizes at the core of his chest despite his fingertips turning ice cold. He smiles through a difficult face amid the grayish complexion that erases the life from his flesh. Still Len cannot believe such a pitiful little flower can hold the very strings to his lifeline. Even for a synthetic man-made being like himself, time can still suffocate his neck with the strings of fate. ”Hahah! I’m really sorry, Ib. You were right. I encouraged you to go visit the gallery with me. You know…the gallery you’ve been always lured to since you were little?” Why does he attempt to recall memories as if they were disappearing from the threshold of his mind? Perhaps his memory is slipping. Perhaps in a matter of time, he will become nothing but a bundle of forgotten memories. "You couldn’t tell me about the secret of this place hidden behind that large mural on the second floor of the museum. You probably thought I wouldn’t believe you…" his voice trails, shaking while trying to grasp onto what little source of life he had left. "Truth is…I would’ve believed you," he smiles.Funny, isn’t it? She might have called him on lying. Yet it is true. "I’ve been through a lot of things, too, you know. Seen my own things and stuff…I wouldn’t even be surprised if you told me you were a superhero." He laughs, but this time it comes out more forced, greatly weakened.                                                                                      Perhaps if we had never met—"Now don’t go around thinking this is your fault, yeah? No one’s to blame, here. It couldn’t be helped. If anything it should be my fault. My fault for prying into your world. I should have respected your silence." He still continues to laugh despite the air slowly choking away at his throat. "Then again, what’s the harm in visiting a simple gallery? Who would’ve known it’d turn out like this.”He can already feel his life force growing thinner as he spoke. "Hey, Ib, may I ask you again? Can you sing?" The one curiosity that prized itself first on his list. What would it be like to listen to her sing? "I…don’t want to be deaf. I don’t want to lose my hearing. When I shut off for good, I want to make sure that the last thing I hear is your song. Can you do that for me? Can you sing for me, please?" His brows are knitted together, his face pooling with distraught emotions. Did it have to end like this!? "Soon I won’t be able to hear anything anymore. I won’t be able to sing anymore. It doesn’t have to be an actual song. A small hum will do…just until I fall asleep…so that I can take it with me, always."The orange petaled rose slowly but surely begins to crumble and fold inwards, decaying at an unsettling rate before their eyes. The stem grows brittle in the male’s grasp, to the point where he can no longer feel anything but the dry strands of a withered straw.The frame belonging to a great mural named Fabricated World disappears, unraveling a white light that shines just down the corridor. The brunette begins to think, deciding between fleeing the boy’s side, or keeping herself with him until his rose completely turns to dust.                                                      The painting will remain open until I finish…right?And so this little songbird begins to sing.Ｌｅｎ    ａｓｋｓ    ｙｏｕ   ｔｏ    ｓｔａｙ    ｂｅｈｉｎｄ. Ｗｈａｔ    ｄｏ    ｙｏｕ    ｄｏ?       Ｊｕｍｐ    ｉｎｔｏ    ｔｈｅ    ｐａｉｎｔｉｎｇ   »Ｓｔａｙ    ｂｅｈｉｎｄ