"Ib?" Garry asked. "Hellooo? Ib?"

"Huh?" Ib asked, snapping out of her daydream. She was sitting at a table in a restaurant—the diner downtown? She looked up, and Garry was looking down at her inquisitively, frowning.

"You zoned out there for a minute…are you okay?" he asked.

"Uh…"

"Whoa, are you crying?" Garry asked worriedly, sitting down in the chair next to her.

"What? No," Ib answered quickly, reaching up and touching her cheek. To her surprise, it was wet.

"What's wrong?" Garry asked, reaching into the pocket of his work uniform and pulling out a tissue, "Here,"

"Thanks," Ib said, taking the tissue and wiping her face, "I...don't really know what happened there. I guess I was thinking about something sad," she said with a shrug, embarrassed. What was wrong with her?

"Oh," Garry said, frowning, "Well, whatever it is, I hope it gets better," he added awkwardly.

"I'm fine, Garry—really," Ib insisted as she managed a grin.

"Okay...good," Garry said hesitantly, smiling back, "So when's that violin recital of yours? Coming up pretty soon, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's in three weeks," Ib answered, "I can't wait. I just want it over with," she sighed, rubbing her temples.

"I'm sure you'll be great. Your friends will all be there to cheer you on, I'm sure," Garry teased with a smile.

"I guess…" Ib trailed off. She didn't really have any friends at school, to be honest. Her classmates all thought she was strange. Of course, her experience with the haunted art gallery wouldn't have helped that reputation any, especially after going in there twice. Thankfully, her parents had been away on a marriage counseling retreat when she had managed to free Garry from the portrait world. It would have been impossible to explain to her father why a strange boy was lying on their living room couch.

"Well I'll definitely be there," Garry said, getting to his feet, "But right now I gotta get back to work. Break time's over," he added glumly, looking at the clock on the far wall.

"Okay, see you later!" Ib said with a wave, gathering her things and looking up at the painting on the wall next to her table. She liked that painting. In it, a young girl was falling through a blanket of orange roses, clutching onto a chain around her neck. The girl looked out of the portrait sadly, as if she was trying to say something. Ib wasn't sure why she liked it so much—ever since the Gallery, she had developed a phobia of roses—but something about it struck her. Maybe it was the shock of blue in the girl's dark hair that she liked, or that the canvas seemed to go on forever, like an endless, black abyss.

Ib put her backpack on and headed out the door of the diner. Her parents would be expecting her home soon, and she had a violin recital to practice for.

And so it ends. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews and for taking the time to read :)