Just as the paintbrush hit the canvas, so did his arm move back and forth across the wall, leaving streaks of color in its wake; he moved as if in a dance, muscles locking and unlocking as color breathed life into the wall's stolid, stony gray. Beneath his mask the boy smiled, an unmatched spirit lingering in his chocolate eyes and sweeping limbs. Her eyes, her lips, her nose — yes, he painted it to her liking, just as she described it in whispers at his ear. At times Micah laughed, engaged in conversation with the ghost, relishing what few moments of happiness they could share. Not often did Storm Lily come to appreciate him; not often did he manage to please her, especially not in his means of acrylic expression.
"I'll be able to store my stencils here," he remarked to his sister, wholly freed from his typical anxieties by the slow creation at the wall. "They won't get wet and ruined anymore so I can keep reusing them. ...Yeah, I can make one of you. I can model it after this, but I was planning on just painting over it eventually."
That was not what Storm Lily cared to hear; his moody younger sister began to chew him out, and immediately he fell to a silence, his hands beginning to shake as they so characteristically did. His movements became stiff, his art ruined by the tremor, panic spreading through his veins — and suddenly there was a silence, only silence. A rustling of trees, and a soft voice. Chocolate eyes gazed wide at the source — a small, pregnant, homely-looking girl — and he quickly reached and pulled the handkerchief down with color-tainted fingers.
"He-he-hello," he stammered, sinking into his shoulders. "Umm, am I... am I bothering you? I'm s-sorry..."
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