Callan never expected a city to be so... big. The towering skyscrapers and bustling streets were a huge change from the neat little town where he'd lived. Looking around, he felt like a tiny fish in a massive ocean: small, helpless, and hopelessly lost.

   The good news, though, was that there was a park a few blocks away, with a coffee shop nearby, so he headed there. He bought a blueberry muffin and a coffee, and wandered through the park, enjoying the new scenery.

      At one end of the park, there was a group of people gathered around what looked like an art display, so Callan wandered over. There were sculptures, and abstract art, even a girl painting portraits. It was like some kind of art-related fund-raiser. The portrait girl suddenly spoke, her voice carrying a faint foreign accent.

"Okay, who is next?" she asked, standing up to put the completed painting on an easel to dry. Callan gasped quietly when he saw her face. It was the girl... his girl! Well, not his girl exactly, but the girl from his dream! She had the same vibrant hair, the same golden eyes... well, the resemblance wasn't exact, but holy hell's bells, it was close enough.

   A pretty toddler with bouncing chocolate curls skipped forward, holding some money in her hand.

"Do me next, please," she giggled happily, giving the money to one of the teens in the group and sitting down on a stool. The portrait-girl smiled.

"Of course, little one. Give me your best smile, and hold still just for a bit," she said, picking up a pencil. She began to draw the little girl's face, and it was amazing to watch. Her arm moved with such skill, such ease, it was like watching a machine at work.

"Kitty, ve leave now," a dark-haired boy said suddenly, talking to the portrait girl. He had the same accent as she did, only his was a lot heavier, and far more noticeable.

"Okay, let me finish the portrait first," she replied, still focused on the canvas.

"No, you finish portrait another day, ve must go," the boy said loudly.

"You vill vait until I am done, Aleksei. Remember, I am not your property, I can do as I please," portrait-girl exclaimed. Watching the two of them, Callan guessed they were a couple. I mean, why else would the boy call her "Kitty?" It wasn't exactly a nickname you'd give to a friend. Not that he knew how friends treated each other.

   Portrait-girl finished her painting and put it on an easel.

"I am sorry, I must leave. But I vil come back soon," she said, to a chorus of groans and protests. A boy with chocolate-colored skin stepped forward from the group of artists.

"I can continue to paint portraits in her place-" he said, but Callan didn't hear anymore, since he was already walking away. He couldn't believe that the portrait-girl was the girl from his dream. Well... kinda, but still. It was seriously weird... impossible, actually.

   He was so deep in thought as he crossed the road, he wasn't watching for cars. So it was a huge surprise when the black limo slammed into his body and sent him flying onto the tar, the impact knocking him unconscious.

~

   When Callan woke up, the first thing he noticed was the throbbing in his head. Then, the pain hit him like a ton of bricks. His left leg felt like it was on fire, each breath he took sent pain shooting through his chest, and it felt like half the skin was missing from his arms. He groaned, his eyes still squeezed shut.

"Hush, moving will only hurt more," a woman's voice said soothingly, even though he hadn't moved. Maybe one of his limbs had twitched or something.

"Where... am... I?" he croaked. When he opened his eyes, they were assaulted by bright light, so he shut them again.

"It's alright, child, you're safe. You were hurt pretty badly in the accident," the woman said. Callan squinted in the harsh light, trying to see who she was.

"Oh, sorry... let me get that," she spoke, and the light dimmed. Callan opened his eyes fully, and saw a middle-aged woman sitting in a chair next to the bed he was in.

   Speaking of which... he was not in a hospital room... he was in an actual bedroom! One far bigger than his attic room back home.

"Who... are you?" he gasped, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

"Just call me Mrs. Markov. What's your name, dear?" she asked, smiling kindly.

"Callan... Burkhardt," he replied, painfully forcing each word out.

"Well, Callan, you should really watch where you're going, you could've been killed! Luckily for you, Igor wasn't driving too fast," Mrs Markov said sternly, but her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Sorry... Did... anyone else... get hurt?" he wheezed.

"Only you, child. Your leg is fractured, you broke four ribs, you have a concussion and you got pretty bruised up. Other than that, just a few minor scrapes and cuts," she told him. Well, that explained why he was having difficulty breathing.

"Thanks for... taking care... of me, ma'am," he said, smiling weakly. Mrs Markov smiled again.

"Oh, silly me, you must be hungry. I'll get my daughter, Katinka, to bring you some food," she said kindly, before walking out of the room. Callan sighed, staring at the ceiling. It hurt too much when he tried to sit up. It didn't take long before the door opened again, and someone walked in.

"I hope you like chicken soup," said a girl with wild auburn hair. Callan could barely believe his eyes. It was her.

   It was portrait-girl.
   Katinka.