The painting was yellowed with rounded edges, its once-brilliant colors faded with time. Yet even in its worn state, it radiated an unmistakable aura of grandeur. It was a masterpiece. And now, it was in my hands.

I stared at it, my pulse quickening. Something wasn’t right. The room felt oppressively silent, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, watching me. My mind spun in chaotic circles, searching for an explanation.

“Wait,” I whispered to myself, my voice trembling. “Have I… stolen this?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. My memory was a hazy mess, fragments of last night slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. I tried to recall how the painting had come into my possession, but the more I focused, the further the answers seemed to drift.

The evening began innocently enough. The gala was a grand affair, hosted in the sprawling halls of an ancient estate. Chandeliers bathed the room in golden light, and the air buzzed with the hum of cultured conversation. I wasn’t supposed to be there, of course. My invitation was a forgery, my attire rented, and my knowledge of fine art cobbled together from late-night Wikipedia binges.

But none of that mattered. I had a purpose.

The centerpiece of the night was The Sunlit Glade, a painting by the enigmatic artist Alaric Beaufort. It was a piece of legendary renown, rumored to be worth more than the estate itself. I had seen photos of it before, but nothing could compare to the real thing. When they unveiled it, a collective gasp swept through the crowd.

It was breathtaking.

As I stood there, pretending to sip champagne, I felt a pang of envy for those who could truly...