Sayaka’s mother was dead. The funeral had been over for two weeks, but Sayaka still wouldn’t return to school.

Until one day, I decided to check on her at home. To my surprise, Sayaka greeted me cheerfully and invited me inside. She took me to her mother’s old studio, where I was stunned by what I saw.

“Mom, look,” said Sayaka. “Nana came to visit.”

It was her mother.

Or at least, that was my first impression. I didn’t even notice the frame and easel holding the portrait until a second later. There, in the middle of the studio, where the afternoon light basked across, stood the image that was the exact likeness of Sayaka’s mother.

“Yes, Mom, I’ll go get tea,” Sayaka said to the portrait, before turning to me. “Make yourself at home, Nana. I’ll be back soon.”

Still speechless, I watched Sayaka leave.

I turned once more to the portrait. Sayaka’s mother had been an art teacher for years, so I was sure she had passed on the skill—

Still.

It was a masterpiece, I thought upon a closer look. The portrait was so lifelike in appearance and feeling. If the saying that art has a soul was true, then what was before me proved it so. Strangely, I couldn’t even smell the oil paint. The color of the skin looked so well done, as if there was real blood flowing beneath. Every curve and line of her face gave the impression of three-dimensionality. Sayaka even painted her mother’s favorite white dress and short hairstyle trimmed above the shoulders. Both the dress and the hair looked to be moving.

And then, the eyes blinked.