Angel realized at the first ray of sunshine that he wouldn't be able to continue on with his day if he didn't go back to the museum. He needed to put his mind at rest that it was merely the product of a stressed out brain.

There were no moving paintings nor any French girl's voice echoing in the wall of the museum. It was all in his head.

That didn't stop him from contacting his father, though.

Ronald Ferrymore was a proud man. He was a successful writer who loved to show everyone what he had accomplished including his son. His world building craft took second place when it came to his only son. With the passing of his mother, Angel became Ronald's entire focus point.

He picked up the phone on the second ring. "Angel, how's the college life treating you?"

"Dad, I need a favor," Angel greeted him. He avoiding talking about himself at all cost. It never led to anything good especially with his dad.

"Sure, anything."

"I need a VIP pass to get in the Gourdon Museum."

There was a pause. Mr. Ferrymore was without a doubt holding back an avalanche of questions. As much as he loved being asked, his son wasn't a big fan of wanting favors from him. It was always a novelty every time he did.

"I think I can arrange that," he replied. "I'll give the owner a call."

"Can you do it today?" Angel asked anxiously. "I need it today."

"Today?" Mr. Ferrymore was perplexed. "What's inside that museum that makes it so interesting. You're not trying to impress a girl again, are you?"

"No, dad, I'm not trying to impressing a girl," Angel answered exasperated. "Can you do it or not?"

"Of course I can do it," Mr. Ferrymore's pride was getting the better of his worry. He loved to show how far his influence could reach.

"Great, just tell me when it's done," Angel hung up the phone with a loud sigh. His feet kept tapping on the floor. He wasn't going to last much longer. He needed to put his mind at rest about this painting.

***

Mr. Ferrymore had finally called back. His timing was perfectly synchronized to Angel's state of mind. The poor boy was on the verge of breakdown when the call came.

He immediately ran to the building. He had to see the painting again. His mind needed to be put at rest before he was able to try to get a grip of chemistry again.

Mr. Fisher – the curator – didn't need any identification to recognize the boy as his features were strikingly similar to his father.

"This way, Mr. Ferrymore," he guided him through the crowd outside waiting to see the artistic designs one last time. "Your father said that you wanted to see the displays for research purposes but he didn't mention what specific exhibits you needed to see."

"There was an oil painting of a girl," Angel explained.

"Oh yes, I know exactly what you're talking about. Follow me." The old man walked with grandeur, adding legitimacy and value to the place. "I must say it's not one of our most well-known nor our most valued pieces. It was giving to the museum as a donation a long time ago. Most of our more important pieces have already been stored and getting ready for auction." He paused in front of a bone necklace. "It's such a shame to have to close this place but the world grows and apparently a shopping mall is more important than art."

Mr. Fisher laughed a bitter laugh before continuing toward the painting. He turned the corner and stopped in front of the painting.

Angel stared at it. It couldn't be. He wiped his eyes over and over again but it was the same. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. Perhaps he saw wrong last night because he could have sworn that the girl worn a simple white dress while she stood in front of the farmhouse.

Today, however, she was wearing a green dress that blended in with her eyes. Her black colored hair was glowing.

"Was she always sitting there?" He asked Mr. Fisher.

The man looked at him as if he just asked the dumbest question ever created. In a way it was since paintings don't move on their own.

"Of course she was always sitting there, people in paintings don't exactly get up and walk to a different spot."

He blinked and turned to Mr. Fisher for a second. When his eyes went back to the painting, the girl's mouth was wide. She was laughing at him again. Except this time, her laugh seemed teasing and friendly.

"Are you seeing this?" He asked.

"Yes, quiet a beautiful painting, isn't it?" The curator replied with a smug smile. "I wish I knew more about it but the owner wanted more focus on the valuable pieces."

Angel looked at him then at the painting. He kept repeating the same action until he wanted to explode with frustration.

"She's laughing," he remarked.

"Yes, such a joyful painting. I can't imagine what must have been going through the painter's mind when he painted her. She's so full of life."

"But she wasn't..." He groaned in frustration. How come he was the only one who was seeing this? The girl was changing facial expressions and attires.

"What exactly is your research on?" Mr. Fisher asked. "Maybe I can recommend something here or look for something in storage for you. As long as nothing leaves the museum, no one will mind."

He glanced at the painting one last time. She was still laughing but at least there were no words this time.

"I'm fine," he told Mr. Fisher. "I'll go."

"A bientôt," the girl whispered as he turned away.

His feet faltered.

"Are you alright, Mr. Ferrymore?" Mr. Fisher asked.

"Did you hear that?" Angel asked him.

"Hear what?"

"A bientôt," he replied.

"Oh, it means see you later in French," Mr. Fisher explained.

Angel groaned in frustration. "I know what it means but did you hear someone say it just now?"

Mr. Fisher shook his head, his eyes searched Angel from head to toes. The poor boy was dying with exhaustion like most of the college students who had walked in here, he thought.

"Never mind," Angel replied before leaving the museum as fast he could.

There was something in there. He knew it and he was going to find out what it was.

***

The universe wasn't going to be on his side this time, Angel thought as he walked in uninvited in the museum for the second night in a row. It didn't matter because he was going to put his mind at rest once and for all.

He skipped his tutoring lessons once again and spent the afternoon catching up with his sleep. He needed to be sharp and eliminate any possible doubts. He was going to see everything with a clear and rested mind.

This time, he went straight to the painting.

She was there, sitting patiently in front of the farmhouse with a dog by her side. Her eyes were fixed on the museum's entrance as if she was waiting for something or someone.

Angel took a deep breath and stood there without blinking. After a few seconds though, he was forced to blink.

"I knew you'd come back," the girl stated.

He swirled around. No one was here. He glanced at the painting, she was still there, smiling expectantly.

"This is getting, how do you young Americans say it? Worn-out, old," she said with a giggle.

"Is this a trick or something?" Angel whispered.

"Maybe, maybe not," the girl teased. "Do you want to find out?"

"Yes," he answered quickly. "I have an exam next week. I already suck at math so I can't have anything taking away from my focus."

She giggled, "okay, close your eyes."

Angel crossed his arms behind his back, "No."

"Oui," she retorted.

"I'm not closing my eyes," Angel stated. "I'm risking jail or a mental hospital by coming back here because of a pretty girl's voice and a moving painting."

"Stop been so têtu," she said, blushing. "Close your eyes."

He wanted to keep pushing the issue but her voice was so lovely and innocent. It was the type of voice that could make anybody trust her and want to do everything she said. But something told him that she wasn't dangerous. She wasn't going to harm him.

He closed his eyes and waited for her. Although it felt like hours, it lasted barely a few seconds.

"Open them slowly and don't scream if you don't want to be arrested," she advised.

With painful slowness, Angel opened his eyes. When he saw her, he almost fainted.

She was no longer just a painting but a real life person who was trapped in the painting. The oil setting stayed the same behind her – green grass, blue sky, and white clouds. They were all inanimate objects except her.

"Hi, I am Zoé." She smiled up at him.

Angel swallowed once, twice, thrice, before breathing again. He attempted to talk but could not find the words. He was astonished at the dark-haired beauty who was grinning at him.

"What is your name?" She asked.

"Angel," he breathed out.

He still couldn't bring himself to believe that the girl in the painting was so lifelike. He extended his fingers and poked the painting. It was as he expected, a rough fabric on top of wooden frame.

"That tickles," she giggled.

He quickly retracted his fingers.

"I'm kidding," she said. "I can't feel anything from outside of this painting."

"How?" He finally asked.

"That is a long story," she glanced behind him, "for another night. The guards are coming."

Angel was able to pull out of the trance long enough to hear the footsteps echoing in the large building. He couldn't bring himself to leave her, though.

"You will come back, won't you?" She pleaded with him. She frowned as her eyes welled with tears.

"Yes," he replied without thinking.

"Is somebody here?" One of the guards called out.

"A bientôt," he said to her.

She chuckled as he turned toward the exit. He looked back at her one last time before leaving. She had blended in with the painting once more, this time, she was waving as she stood before the farmhouse.