A/N: This is my first real attempt at a multi-chapter story. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1

Ib has been wasting all her allowance and lunch money for the last three months.

She didn't know why.

She did, however, know what she needed it for.

Every single day without fail she would come back to this place, whether it was after school or some time she was able to steal away for herself.

She never forgot to go. Sometimes she was only able to stay a few minutes. But she always stayed for as long as she could. Once, she was able to get in as soon as it opened and she stayed until they announced that it was closing. There was something undeniably important about the little gallery but she didn't know what.

She handed the man at the counter the money for admission and accepted her ticket. As she walked passed the counter, she shivered. The now familiar feelings of dread and longing welled up within her, as they always did when she entered the gallery. She was sure that the beginning of her first visit was not tainted by these feelings. She was equally sure that initial visit had caused her reason to have these feelings. But her whole first visit there was a blurry, barely there memory.

There were certain works that called to her more strongly than the rest. Abyss of the Deep always managed to catch her eye. She stared at it. She always felt like if she just had the courage to go over or under the fence surrounding it, she would be able to touch it and it would be wet like real water. Though she felt like even jumping into the water of the painting wouldn't make her wet even as it chilled and soaked her to the bone. She walked on.

She stood in front of Embodiment of the Spirit. It was so lifelike. Its petals looked delicate and the stem looked like it would snap even with all the pointy thorns. As usual, she felt tears well up in her eyes as they fell upon the petals on the floor. The idea of the petals falling off the the vibrant rose brought forth an image of death. It was an image she should not have been so familiar with. An image of choking for breath and gasping in agony as petals fell off a rose. Sometimes the rose she pictured within her head was bright red and others it was a deep blue. Both images brought tears to her eyes but the thought of the blue rose dying always rendered her unable to do anything but break down and sob as feelings of regret, guilt, and gratefulness flooded through her. Hiccuping and roughly wiping tears from her eyes, she walked on.

Her tears had subsided by the time she drew near the painting Lady in Red. She knew wasn't supposed to but she always ran past this one. It made her uncomfortable. Being around it made her antsy. However, the feeling of discomfort paled in comparison to the choking fear that overcame her whenever she tiptoed her way around the sculpture Death of the Individual. The three headless statues were so large compared to her. She just knew they were heavy and their grip would be like steel and just as unbreakable. They were definitely more of a threat than the Lady in Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow who she somehow knew only had sharp nails and that could cut skin and hands that could grip firmly but still, not as inescapable.

There were times that she neglected to visit all of the creations in the gallery, but this next one she visited each time with no exception. The Forgotten Portrait. The man in the portrait held a single blue rose, vines all around him framing the image. His eyes were closed as he slumbered. But he wasn't sleeping, she knew. She initially thought he was, though her first time seeing the image was unclear in her memory. The bits and pieces of the memory she could grasp were impossible. They would suggest she had seen this man in person but he was just a painting. Guertena didn't paint real people after all. But she was sure he had a name. The name always eluded her, however. She was sure that the man was dead. Though the rose was depicted in the painting as blooming with life, she was sure that somewhere there was a blue rose accountable for his condition, dying and bare, blue petals slowly browning where they had been plucked off the rose.

She lightly brushed the lighter in her skirt pocket with her thumb. She remembered she had found it in her pocket after they had left the gallery that first time. She knew she shouldn't have it. It wasn't hers. Children weren't supposed to touch dangerous items like the lighter. She remembered her father scolding her one birthday when she had fiddled with the lighter her father had used to light up the birthday candles. But having it with her made her feel safe. The cold metal warming beneath her hand and the unmistakable weight in her pocket assuring her it was really truly there put her mind at ease. She felt like she needed it and trusted her instincts, keeping it on hand. She was sure it had saved her once—her eyes were suddenly overflowing with tears again—but she was sure it had failed someone else.

She would break down again if she stayed there. She bit her lip and forced her legs to move away. She walked aimlessly, focusing solely on getting away, on putting one foot in front of the other until she finally calmed down. She had stopped in front of another painting that held significance. It was huge, taking up a whole hallway all on its own. Its size made it intimidating, though not as much as the slightly smaller Abyss of the Deep with its monster. Her fingers gently brushed over the letters etched into the white stone plaque: Fabricated World. Standing in front of this painting she always felt like everything had started, come full circle and ended while she had missed some vital parts. She needed to do something or something needed to change here but she had no idea what.

"Attention, guests. The gallery will be closing in 10 minutes. Please make your way out of the gallery at this time. The gallery will open at 10:00 AM tomorrow. Have a good night and thank you for visiting."

She watched people as they walked by her, heading toward the exit. She glanced down the hallway, she could see the transparent glass entryway into the back room of the gallery. She knew the routine by now. The lights would turn off in one room at a time. The furthest from the entrance first, gradually making its way until all the lights were off. She had seen it through the windows a couple times as she lingered outside the gallery before walking home for the night. The lights flicked in the back room before finally going off. She blinked, feeling surprised. This was the normal routine, but it felt so different watching it from the inside. The lights flickered above her and she looked around worriedly. Then the lights went off. Something was wrong. And the feeling was familiar.

She had walked around the whole gallery and hadn't seen a soul. It wasn't likely for her to see many for sure, as it was after closing but she should have seen a security guard by now. She had seen them previous nights after the gallery closed, walking around the with their bright flashlights. Somehow she was sure there were none to be found. She kept walking, faster now, passing painting after painting before reaching the entrance and finding it locked. She walked briskly around the gallery, hoping it was pure coincidence she had yet to run into a guard. She found her heart leaping into her throat once in each room she passed, seeing or hearing things. She was sure she heard cough in the room with The Coughing Man and the Embodiment of Spirit. She could have sworn she heard a cat in the room with the painting Your Dark Figure. She shook her head to dispel the thoughts. They weren't possible. But then she watched as a fruit fell out of the painting Bitter Fruit and knew she couldn't possibly be dreaming. She continued walking.

Eventually, she found herself in front of the Fabricated World again. She noticed blue paint dripping from it and walked up to it to get a better look. Before her eyes, paint seeped into the wall disappearing until the remaining paint formed words. Come down below, I'll show you someplace good. She stepped back in fright and as she turned her attention back to the room she noticed red paint splattered across the floor. Let's play some more, Ib! She knew that whoever was calling her meant to encourage her to the painting Abyss of the Deep. It was directly where she was standing now, only on the floor below.

Taking in a shaky breath to steady her nerves, she made her way toward the painting. As she reached the top of the stairs she noticed something. There was a blank painting that she'd passed. She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She ran up to it and read the plaque, though she knew what was supposed to be in that spot. The Forgotten Portrait was blank. Worry blossomed within her and she hurried down the stairs and ran into the room with the dark blue-toned painting. A part of the surrounding fence had disappeared. There were blue paint foot steps leading into the painting.

Ib walked up to the painting and took a deep breath before jumping in. As the water flowed around and through her roaring in her ears a single thought rang determinedly in her head as it filled in the name she hadn't been able to remember before.

'I'll find you, Garry.'