The Lake Painting

The painting was a gift from her close friend. Luna loved the photograph of the two of them when they decided to spend the night on the cliff overlooking the Lake, just dark figures barely visible in the glory of the rising sun and the azure blue sky.

It was one of those summer nights when you had a feeling the night skies would open and take you into their loving arms, an unforgettable memory for both of them, when they discussed their respective futures, her friend’s future marriage, her life now that she was all alone and free which was both sad and exciting because she owed nothing to no one anymore… For her birthday, a surprise arrived in a form of a painting of that dawn, the reminder of the night full of promise and hope and nostalgia, and it looked even better on the canvas since her friend was able to capture all the colors and shapes and shadows. Luna could swear she could smell the air and feel the calm of that morning and felt refreshed every time she looked at it.

But this morning, as she stood in front of the painting, something had changed. The warmth she used to feel when she gazed at that glorious piece of her past no longer had the same power over her. The colors, once vibrant and comforting, now seemed to hold a quiet sadness, a weight that wasn’t there before. Ten years. Her mind kept drifting to the time that had passed since that summer night, to the conversations and encounters that had once been so full of hope, but now felt like echoes from another lifetime.

The friend who had given her the painting—she was married with children, on another continent, still there but with little free time left. Her great love, her childhood crush, was no longer there, shockingly destined to crash and burn. Their paths had parted in ways neither of them could have anticipated. She hadn’t heard from his family in months, not since the farewell that had felt final, even though no words had been exchanged to mark it. She never asked about him, seemingly bubbly and happy but empty inside. There had always been a part of her that wondered if things could have turned out differently.

Her fingers traced the edge of the frame. She remembered the Lake, its soothing effect on her, the way she had laughed that night on the cliff, how the light in the sky had mirrored the light glowing inside her. She could still feel the cool stone beneath her as they sat side by side, watching the sky change with each passing minute. It was a moment frozen in time, a memory too perfect to be real.

But now, the painting seemed like a relic of another world, one she could no longer reach. The promise of that dawn had long since faded, swallowed by the years and the choices she had made. The bonds that had once seemed unbreakable now felt fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment.

As she stood there, lost in thought, the doorbell rang, pulling her from her reverie. She hesitated, always unwilling to open the door to her fortress of solitude where she felt safe and protected from the harsh realities of the world.

The doorbell rang again, this time more insistent. She moved toward the door slowly, silently, avoiding creaky floorboards. When she opened it, there was no one there—only a small package on the welcome mat. It was carefully wrapped in brown paper, with no return address, only her name written in unfamiliar handwriting.

Her heart skipped a beat. She could only hope it wasn’t something that bites.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the package, revealing a note and a small, intricately wrapped bundle. She unfolded the note.

“The painting’s not done yet. It may change your life if you decide to change it. Your friend Emma”

Her breath caught in her throat. She glanced back at the painting on the wall, the same one she had been staring at before the doorbell had interrupted her. Suddenly, something felt different, as if the very air got sucked out of the room. She turned back to the package, pulling out the bundle. It was a small vial of dark liquid, almost black, but with a deep, iridescent sheen when the light hit it.

Luna stood there for a moment, her mind racing.

She ran to the cupboard where she had some unpacked brushes and took out the finest of them. With trembling hands, she dipped the brush into the vial. As the bristles touched the canvas, the colors began to shift. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and she could almost feel the pulse of something alive in the painting, as though the canvas itself were breathing with her.

At first, it was subtle—just a hint of new hues blending into the sky, softening the edges of the horizon. She could still see the lake, the sun rising in its glory, but something new was seeping in, a shadow stretching across the canvas where once there had been only light.

It didn’t stop there. As she moved the brush along the edges of the painting, it seemed to bleed into the scene, altering the moment captured. The figures of her and her friend on the cliff grew faint, as if the painting were erasing them from the memory, replacing them with new, unclear shapes—the shadows of time passing, of change. The once crisp lines now blurred, a mixture of warm tones of orange and gold melting into the cool blues of the lake, the figures becoming less defined, as though they were slipping away into the past.

The next morning, she woke up to find the painting had changed again. The cliff and the lake were still there, but it was no longer the dawn she had cherished, but a quiet twilight, the colors darker, more muted. The figures had dissolved into shadows. Their outlines were still there, but there was something distant about them now. They were more memories than people.

The change was unnerving. It felt like a reflection of the events that followed the moments by the Lake.

Days passed, and every time she looked at the painting, it was different. Sometimes it was bright and full of light, like that first morning. Other times, it was stormy, the skies darkening and swirling, the lake restless. In those moments, she felt as though the painting understood her struggles—her fears, her loneliness. The love and pain that had woven themselves into her life with every wrong decision. Every time she painted, she poured new memories into it, and in return, it poured something back.

It wasn’t just the past she was painting—it was her present, her future, the woman she was becoming. The painting had become a mirror of her soul, constantly changing with every new chapter she faced. With each new brushstroke, Luna realized she wasn't just trying to capture that one perfect moment from the past—she was evolving, accepting that life was not about preserving a perfect memory, but about embracing the messy, beautiful, and unpredictable nature of time.

Each time she painted, each time she touched the canvas, she noticed something more: the painting no longer reflected the present or the past. It had begun to show her alternate paths—visions of herself in different situations, scenarios that might have been, if only certain choices had been different.

One morning, as the sun broke through her window and she found herself once again standing before the canvas, she noticed something strange. The figure on the cliff—the one she recognized as herself—was no longer just a shadow. She could see her face now, though it was blurry, almost like a reflection in water. She leaned in, her breath catching in her chest. The colors began to swirl, and the scene in the painting changed again.

She was no longer alone on the cliff. The figure beside her—her friend—was replaced by someone else. A man, tall and familiar, but with features that seemed just a little off, like a face she almost recognized but couldn't quite place. They were standing together, facing the sunrise, laughing, their arms brushing. There was a warmth in his smile that she hadn't expected, a tenderness that almost made her heart ache.  

What if she had taken a chance on him?

The thought passed quickly, but it lingered, like a faint echo in the back of her mind. She had met him years ago, at a birthday party, and he had left a mark on her with her angelic face framed with black curls and revolutionary ideas. Yet, she had never let herself entertain the idea of what could have been. She had been too focused on work and proving herself. However, there, in that moment on the canvas, she saw it. A different life.

She stepped back, staring at the painting. The colors shifted again, this time pulling her into a different world. She saw herself standing on the edge, not with a man - completely alone. Her face was turned toward the darkening sky, her body tense, as if she were preparing to leap.

What if she had never found the courage to move on from her past?

She saw herself clinging to memories, to the ghost of what she had endured as her grandma’s caregiver, nine long years. The painting seemed to pulse with a feeling of being trapped in that bedroom turned into a sick room, unable to move forward or break free. The figure in the painting looked lost, distant, focused on menial tasks, burials and memorial services.

The weight of the image hit her hard. This was the path of regret, of missed opportunities, of serving the dead.

Surprisingly, as quickly as the scene had shifted, the painting began to change again, and the next image that appeared was startlingly different.

In this one, the sun was still rising, but the sky was light pink and baby blue, her mom’s face on it, as if on a liquid screen, smiling and encouraging. “I didn’t raise a loser”, the words flowed through her head. She was standing on the cliff looking at the image, alone, but peaceful within. She was looking not at the horizon, but at something closer to her—perhaps the life she had built, the things she had done for herself. There was a sense of balance, a sense of becoming whole.

What if she embraced her independence fully?

This version of herself had found peace with her choices, no longer seeking validation or answers from others. The colors were rich, strong.

She went to bed and slept for 8 hours straight for the first time in years, waking up refreshed.

The next week she avoided the painting as it could suck her in but on Friday, Luna gathered courage and approached it cautiously. She was on the very same cliff, but this time, there was a soft, golden twilight. There were some men around her but kept their distance. They looked at her wistfully. She waved at them, smiled and started walking toward the path away from the cliff.

Did she lose too much time trying to rekindle what she had lost?

The painting was alive, constantly evolving, showing her every what-if she had ever wondered about. It was as if the canvas could peer into the deepest parts of her, drawing out the most hidden desires, the fears she had never voiced.

Her fingers hovered over the brush again, but this time, she hesitated. The solution was finally clear: accepting infinite versions of herself—each one shaped by a different choice, a different direction, a different turn of fate. The painting had become a record of her life, not as it was, but as it could have been. It held the echoes of the woman she had been and the woman she could become.

In that moment, she realized she didn't need to choose. She had already carried all those versions of herself within her. They were all part her. The painting was no longer just a gift from her past—it was a map, an invitation to embrace the complexity of her own journey. Since she believed in multiverse and its infinite versions and the lives of different Lunas in them, this acceptance came naturally.

She stepped back, taking in the full expanse of the painting. The rising sun, the shifting skies, the cliffs and the Lake—the mirror of the life she was living, the one she had lived, and the one that could still be. She just had to keep moving forward, knowing that each brushstroke, each change, would be a part of her story.

As the painting continued to evolve, she began to see something she hadn't expected - an undeniable truth about herself: she enjoyed her own company! Each version of the painting now seemed to tell a different story, but one thread connected them all: all those men were there from various multiverse versions, each a lesson in itself, and almost always a relief following each separation with a bit of regret. Perhaps she was ready to embrace a genuine partnership. Perhaps with someone similar to her.

Another scene unfolded before her. In this one, she was alone on the cliff again, but the figure in the painting was a man standing a few feet behind her, protective and vigilant about her needs and her well-being. She was standing there, with the horizon stretched out before her, her back straight, her face calm. The painting showed her confidently stepping forward into her own life, her independence shining from within. She was whole.

This was who she was meant to become.

The realization hit her like a wave. She was happy just because, not because of someone else, or a job promotion. She was complete on her own, not completed by someone else. And the man behind her was watching her back and she knew if she had started to fall, he would rush to catch her.

The painting began to change again. This time, she saw herself not in the past, but in the future. A future where she was bound to the life she had built for herself. There were flashes of her living in a big cottage surrounded by breathtaking nature, near a bustling city, vibrant and full of life, doing things she had always loved: writing, volunteering in a community center, hiking. In another scene, she was traveling the world with the man, exploring new places, meeting new people, tasting lovely food. In all of these versions, there was a sense of freedom and self-empowerment, of living fully and unapologetically.

Her heart pounded as she moved from one scene to the next, almost as if the painting were urging her to stop holding onto something that had already faded. It was time to let go.

For years, she had felt the weight of past decisions, as if she needed an excuse not to live the life she deserved, sabotaging herself every time a n opportunity presented itself. In essence, things had changed. She had changed. She had built a new life, and now, more than ever, she needed to embrace that.

Even as she accepted this, a part of her still felt sadness - the kind of sadness that comes with realizing that something had to end in order for something better to begin. She allowed herself a moment of grief, acknowledging the past, the good and the bad. Nevertheless, she also knew this: she needed to start living in the present and savor every moment if she wanted to step into the future she had started to see in the painting.

The brush felt heavy in her hand as she added the final strokes. The last image that formed was a simple one. It was of her, standing alone on the cliff, the sun finally setting. The man was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to her, reading a book. He was her rock and she was his inspiration. The colors were softer now, the scene calmer, but there was a quiet strength in it, a sense of peace.

As the brush finished its last stroke, she stepped back and looked at the canvas. Luna saw herself clearly - no longer weighed down by what might have been, but standing strong in the life she was still creating. For the first time in years, she felt truly free.