Chameleon Magazine

In an abandoned studio, a giant canvas leaned against the wall, untouched for years. Dust floated like galaxies in the dim light. To anyone else, it was nothing—just fabric stretched across wood, a void waiting to rot.

But to her, the young painter, the emptiness trembled. She ran her hands across the blank weave and felt currents underneath, like unseen tides. She whispered, “You’re not empty—you’re breathing.”

That night she dipped her brush into water, not paint. She swept long arcs of wetness across the fabric. The strokes were invisible in the gloom, but the canvas shivered with anticipation. She didn’t yet see what would come, but she knew creation had already begun.

“What looks like emptiness is often just a canvas waiting for breath.”