Muse

She was beautiful.

She was fluid in motion, her hair flowing down her back in gentle waves. I snuck out to the old house to see her, and she would always be there, smiling softly at me.

I would stare endlessly at her angelic face, my muse. I painted dozens of portraits of her.

We would stay until dawn, silent. I never even knew her name, nor did she know mine. But we held each other's eyes, a silent language passing between us.

As the sun rose, I would pack up my things and we would both leave - I walked back into the world of the living, and she faded back into the world of the dead.