The painting.

He had seen her face a thousand times, but never in person. She was the woman in the painting, the one that hung on the wall of his favorite museum. He had first seen her when he was a teenager, on a school trip. He had been captivated by her beauty, her grace, her mystery. He had wondered who she was, what her name was, what her story was. He had imagined talking to her, holding her hand, kissing her lips. He had fallen in love with her, from a distance.

He had never told anyone about his feelings for the woman in the painting. He knew they would think he was crazy, obsessed, delusional.

He had grown older, but she had remained the same. She was timeless, ageless, eternal. She was his constant, his comfort, his hope. She was his muse, his inspiration, his passion. She was his dream, his fantasy, his reality. She was his love.

He had reached the gallery and looked at the wall where the painting hung. He had gasped.

The painting was gone.