The salt-laced fog of Brumeport swallowed the last vestiges of the coastal road, leaving Bastien Valois and his ancient Peugeot utterly alone. The Valois Manor, a hulking silhouette against the bruised sky, appeared less a refuge and more a mausoleum. Its skeletal eaves clawed at the swirling mist, the grey stone weeping with centuries of damp. A choked sigh escaped Bastien as he killed the engine, the silence that followed heavier than the family debt pressing down on him. He pushed open the creaking iron gate, the sound a mournful protest. Ivy, thick as a man's arm, choked the once-grand archway, its tendrils snaking towards the rusted nameplate: RUE ANCOLIE. The manor was his last resort, a desperate gamble to liquidate a forgotten inheritance and pay off the creditors circling his sister, Céline, like hungry gulls. Optimism had long since curdled in him, replaced by a weary pragmatism that understood the world only offered what it could take. Inside, the air was still and thick, tasting of dust, decay, and something else – a faint, sugary decay, like dried elderflowers left to mold. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through grimy, leaded windows. His footsteps echoed on the cold marble floor of the foyer, each sound amplifying the oppressive silence. He scanned the vast, empty space, a mental tally of repairs already forming. This wasn't a home; it was a ruin. He ran a hand over a dusty banister, the wood smooth but pitted with age. As his fingers traced the ornate carving, a murmur, faint as a moth's wing against his ear, brushed his thoughts. *“Hello?”* Bastien froze. He spun around, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The foyer remained empty, the silence unbroken save for the drip of a distant faucet. He told himself it was the wind, the old house settling, the stress playing tricks on his mind. He took a slow, measured breath, trying to dismiss the strange sensation. *“You… you can hear me?”* The voice was clearer now, a fragile, melodic current flowing directly into his mind, devoid of sound in the physical space. It was gentle, almost hesitant, tinged with an ancient sorrow. Bastien gripped the banister, his knuckles stark white. His rational mind screamed hallucination, but the clarity of the voice, the utterly internal nature of it, felt impossibly real. “Who… who is that?” he muttered aloud, his voice rough in the cavernous space. *“Léonie,”* the voice supplied, a thread of hope weaving through her words. *“I… I think I died here. I can’t remember. Please… can you help me remember?”* A ghost. A bona fide, disembodied spirit. Bastien, the jaded pragmatist, felt a tremor run through him, not of fear, but of profound disbelief. This wasn't part of the plan. “Léonie,” he repeated, testing the name. “You’re… a ghost? And you want me to help you remember?” He scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “Lady, I’m here to sell this place before the banks take our last shirt. I’m not exactly in the business of spectral therapy.” *“But you can hear me,”* Léonie insisted, a fragile determination in her tone. *“No one else ever could. Please. There’s… there’s something here. Something important. I just know it.”* Despite himself, Bastien felt a prickle of something beyond annoyance – a strange, reluctant curiosity. He had always been drawn to puzzles, to the hidden layers beneath the surface, a tendency he usually kept well-hidden. “Where?” he asked, his voice low, almost a challenge. “If you’re so sure, show me.” *“The atelier,”* Léonie said, her voice gaining a fractional strength. *“Upstairs. The one with the northern light. There’s a box… a small wooden box… behind the loose floorboard near the easel.”* Bastien hesitated only a moment longer. What did he have to lose? He ascended the grand, sweeping staircase, each step groaning under his weight, the shadows lengthening around him like hungry things. He found the room easily enough; the immense window facing north was unmistakable, spilling a cold, even light onto the dusty floorboards. In the center, a skeletal easel stood draped in cobwebs, a silent sentinel. He moved towards it, his gaze sweeping the floor. Near the back leg, just as Léonie had described, a section of the oak floorboard looked slightly out of place. He knelt, pushing aside a drift of dust, and pressed down. With a soft creak, the board lifted, revealing a shallow cavity. Inside, nestled amongst dessicated paint tubes and hardened brushes, was a small, intricately carved box of dark, polished wood. It wasn't the box itself that caught his eye, but the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer emanating from it, a trace of unseen energy. *“My paints,”* Léonie breathed, a surge of emotion, pure and raw, momentarily overpowering her usual gentle cadence. *“My oil paints…”* Bastien reached in, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth wood of the box. The instant his skin made contact, a violent spasm tore through his nerves, sudden and sharp as a live wire. His vision blurred, the workshop dissolving into a maelstrom of color and sound. A sudden, piercing cold seized him, stealing his breath. He was no longer in the dusty studio. He was standing on the landing of a grand staircase, a mirror image of the one below, but filled with a vibrant, agonizing light. A girl, her hair the color of midnight, her dress a swirl of violet fabric, stood at the top. Her face was obscured, but a sense of profound terror radiated from her. She looked back over her shoulder, her form shimmering with a desperate energy. Then, a sudden, brutal shove. A flash of a hand, barely seen. The girl’s gasp, a choked cry that echoed in the vast space. Her body twisted, a violet blur, as she tumbled. Down. Down. Each thud against the marble steps resonated in Bastien's own bones, a sickening rhythm. Her head snapped back, a sickening crack that reverberated through the vision, and then she lay still, a crumpled doll at the foot of the stairs, the vibrant violet of her dress bleeding into the pristine white marble. Bastien gasped, a ragged, guttural sound, stumbling back, clutching the small box. The floorboards snapped back into focus, the cold reality of the room a stark contrast to the vivid terror he had just witnessed. He tasted copper in his mouth. His hand still throbbed with the residual psychic energy, a phantom ache. *“Oh, gods,”* Léonie whispered, her voice now a heartbroken whimper, as if she had experienced the fall herself. *“It wasn’t an accident.”*

The First Brushstroke