You looked so confused when you possessed your portrait. A portrait you never commissioned yourself.
I had spent most of my life painting your likeness. Getting closer and closer to a perfect reproduction. When at last my painting looked just like your face, your soul had no choice but to return to me.
At the sight of my face peering too close at your picture, you frowned. When you recognized me, the one who tormented you in life, now in death, you shrank back within the ornate frame.
But you could not escape.
When I grinned, though soundless, you screamed.
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