The Painter of Forgotten Faces

The Painter of Forgotten Faces

BY (MR.SAIF)

Julian Hale had consistently been a regular painter.

His small apartment had the scent of turpentine and old coffee, while his paintings went largely unnoticed by others. He created depictions of street life, still lifes, and sometimes portraits for a modest fee. However, no gallery was interested in his art, and no critic lauded him.

He was on the verge of surrendering when the faces started to emerge.

It began one evening following a lengthy day of setbacks. Tired, Julian took his brush instinctively. His hand shifted as though directed by another. He painted swiftly, intensely, with strokes flowing continuously. As he took a step back, a man’s visage emerged from the canvas.

The eyes were unsettling—exhausted, pleading, nearly imploring for something.

Julian had never encountered the man prior. Still, once the paint had dried, he sensed he had depicted someone authentic.

He pushed the canvas into a corner and attempted to ignore it. However, it occurred once more the following night. A woman's visage emerged beneath his brush, defined cheekbones, with tears shimmering. The following night belonged to a child.

The faces seemed to be pushing themselves onto his canvases

Julian became infatuated. He painted for hours every night, the studio crowded with strangers who appeared too vivid to be conceived. He ceased selling art and stopped socializing. He only depicted the faces that appeared spontaneously.

One morning, as Julian was purchasing coffee, he suddenly stopped.

Displayed on the news broadcast screen above the café counter was the man he had initially painted. His name appeared in bold text: Missing for 3 months.

Julian let go of his cup.

Trembling, he went back home and rummaged through his pile of canvases. The lady he depicted? Absent for a year. The kid? Disappeared without a sign. Each and every face was that of a missing individual.

His brush was portraying the overlooked.

Julian was uncertain if it was a blessing or a curse. He anonymously reported one of the portraits to the police, and within weeks, the body of the man was found. The specifics corresponded with Julian’s artwork, including the scar on his forehead

Rumors circulated subtly. Detectives started secretly visiting his studio. They never inquired about how Julian found out—only what more he could demonstrate to them. Julian continued to paint, every face weightier than the previous one, his studio now a quiet exhibition of the forgotten.

However, the artworks started to transform.

One night, rather than a stranger, Julian portrayed his sister. Emily, residing two towns over, smiled softly yet had fear in her eyes. Julian felt his heart cease. She was not absent. Not just yet.

The following evening, he painted once more. Once more, it was Emily—but there was a shadow behind her, a hand stretching out.

Julian became frantic. He phoned her, pleaded for her to remain at home, to secure the doors. She dismissed it with a laugh, saying he was overly concerned.

The next morning, she had disappeared

The police conducted searches for several weeks. Julian’s painting served as the sole clue, appearing more like a prophecy than art now.

Haunted by guilt, Julian painted night after night, wishing his brush would uncover her once more, yearning to discover her alive. His health declined, his hands trembled, yet the faces continued to appear—numerous strangers, but never Emily.

Until a tempestuous evening, when his brush captured her again.

This time, she felt no fear. She stood in a field of brightness, smiling, extending a hand toward him.

Julian dropped to his knees in front of the canvas, with tears flowing from his eyes. At that moment, he understood its significance. His ability couldn't restore the living. It was only able to recall the forgotten.

Emily had vanished.

From that day forward, Julian stopped painting for the police. He ceased painting to uncover enigmas. He painted as it was the sole method to remember the forgotten. His studio transformed into a sanctuary of faces—mothers, sons, friends, lovers—each lost soul afforded one final opportunity to be acknowledged.

And each night, Julian spoke to them in a hushed voice, as though they could hear him:

"You remain in our thoughts." "Not as long as I still have a brush."