In my middle school art room, a single unfinished self-portrait had been left behind.

The canvas rested on an old easel in the back of the art supply room. It depicted a schoolgirl in uniform, but her face was left incomplete. Although her outline and hair were meticulously detailed, her eyes were completely blank white.

The older members of the art club called the painting "The Girl Who Can't See."

"Whatever you do, don't draw the eyes."

That's what a third-year student told me on my first day in the club.

When I asked why, she only said, "Because then she'll be able to see."

One day after school, Mayu—another member of the art club—and I stayed behind late. We were falling behind on our posters for the school festival, so no one else was left in the art room.

It was raining outside, and darkness pressed against the windows. The white faces of the plaster busts floated faintly under the glow of the fluorescent lights.

Mayu looked toward the supply room with a bored expression.

"Hey, have you ever actually seen that painting?"

"The Girl Who Can't See?"

"Yeah. That one."

Before I could stop her, Mayu opened the door to the supply room.

I hurriedly followed after her.

There, in the back, stood the self-portrait.

Perhaps because of the rain's humidity, the canvas was slightly warped. Even though her blank white eyes weren't looking at us, I somehow felt her gaze.

"You're being way too paranoid."

Mayu picked up a paintbrush.

"Stop it."

"I'm just going to add a tiny dot."

Saying that, Mayu dropped a dab of black paint onto the right eye.

At that moment, the fluorescent lights in the art room flickered once.

Snap.

We fell silent.

Nothing happened.

Mayu laughed.

"See? It's just a rumor."

Just then, the sound of a chair scraping echoed from outside the supply room.

Screeech.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone in the art room.

When I cautiously peeked out, someone was sitting at a desk by the window.

It was a schoolgirl in uniform.

Her back was to us, facing the desk. Her long hair draped down over her shoulders, hiding her face from view.

"Who is that?"

When I spoke up, the girl slowly turned around.

On her face, she had only a right eye.

Her left eye was a blank white space.

Mayu let out a quiet scream.

Staring at us with her single eye, the girl opened her mouth.

"I still... can't see."

The voice sounded right beside us. Yet it didn't match the movement of her lips.

Mayu dropped the brush and backed into the rear of the supply room.

Right then, something knocked over behind us.

When we turned around, the girl in the canvas had changed.

The right eye that was supposed to be blank was now filled in with the black paint Mayu had applied. And the mouth in the portrait was curling into a faint smile.

"The left one, too."

The girl in the art room spoke.

"Draw the left one, too."

Mayu shook her head.

"No... no, please."

With that, the girl stood up from the desk.