(Caption) The Most Beautiful Girl in the Painting

He was a celebrated painter, famed for capturing the beauty of young women. Countless visitors would pause before his work, sighing, saying, "It's as if even the soul was painted into it." Yet only he knew that none of those girls were the one he truly sought.

In his heart, there existed an image—the perfect girl of this world. But no matter how many times he painted her, something was always missing. That indescribable spirit was always veiled, like mist between them. He often sighed, "Perhaps true beauty is something my brush can never capture."

His apprentice admired him deeply and would often plead, "Master, let me try once. Maybe I can help you find that beauty."

But the painter would always shake his head. "If even I haven't found her, how could you?"

Until one day, by chance, he discovered a strange piece of paper in an old art supply shop. It was smooth beyond ordinary texture, faintly reflective, as if a ripple of water lay hidden within it. He thought, Maybe with this paper, I can finally complete her.

He fixed the paper in place and lifted his brush. The moment the tip touched the surface, a burst of light flared—and he was pulled inside. The studio was left silent, with only the blank paper remaining. Then, slowly, an image began to form: his own figure, as if he had been painted into the sheet.

Later, the apprentice entered the room and frowned in surprise. "Master… is this a self-portrait?"

The "him" in the painting looked calm, brush still in hand, as though he might move at any moment. A faint bitterness stirred in the apprentice's chest. He had been stifled too long—his master never let him paint, never believed in his talent.

He smiled faintly, sat before the easel, and picked up a brush.

"Then… I'll turn your self-portrait into the girl you always wanted."

The brush began to glide over the paper.

He started with the hair. The short locks were slowly lengthened, soft strands cascading down with a faint greenish sheen, the tips curling slightly and shimmering like a dream under light. A few wisps of fringe were added to soften the shadow on her forehead, giving her a lively, gentle charm. A light stroke crowned her head with a wreath—tiny pink and rose-colored blossoms intertwined with ribbons.

Next came the face. The apprentice inhaled deeply, dipped his brush into pale pink, and began. The once-firm lines melted into softness. The sharp edges rounded; the nose grew delicate; lips curved gently, tinted with the glow of cherry petals. One by one, he painted the lashes—long, thick, and tenderly curled. The golden eyes beneath them glimmered faintly, as if they could reflect the whole world.

The brush moved downward.

He dressed her in pale blue—a color that rippled like silk on water. A rose bloomed at her chest, a pink ribbon looping around her waist and tied into a tender bow at her side. The sleeves flared slightly, trimmed with lace and tiny ribbons, making her seem like a dream stepping out of a garden. Layers of ruffles fell from her dress, pink and blue blending in flowing motion, embroidered with roses that almost trembled in the light.

Then, with meticulous care, he painted her legs—white lace stockings revealing faint floral patterns, tightening softly around her thighs. Silk ribbons bound her ankles, pink bows twining over sapphire-blue heels. The straps crossed in graceful arcs, the clasps shaped like tiny blue hearts that glinted and made his pulse quicken.

At last, he took the finest brush and added the final touch—a hint of blush, a gentle shadow, the faint lift of her smile.

The figure in the painting seemed to breathe.

A strange current rippled through the room. The girl's lashes fluttered, and her golden eyes slowly opened.

Before he could react, light shimmered at the edges of the painting, and her body emerged—passing through the paper as if through a thin mirror, landing softly before him.

She curled up on the floor, her golden-green hair spreading around her like silk, the flower crown trembling slightly. She lifted her head, eyes shy and uncertain. "...Don't be afraid. It's me."

He froze, staring at the girl before him—more beautiful than any painting could hold. She looked down at her slender fingers, her soft dress, the blossoms woven in her hair. Her cheeks flushed, her voice trembling. "I… became a girl?"

She drew her knees close, her skirt pooling around her feet, white lace stockings gleaming faintly in the light. The blue heels chimed softly as she moved. With a hesitant hand, she brushed a lock of hair aside, still half in disbelief.

"This… this is the girl I always wanted to paint."

The apprentice knelt slightly, meeting her timid gaze. Her golden eyes shimmered like wet light. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've trusted you sooner… You helped me find her—and myself."

He paused, then said softly, "May I paint you again?"

She smiled—bright as morning sunlight—and wrapped her arms gently around him, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek.

"Of course. From now on, I'll be yours to paint."