The girl looked like Christina of Denmark, whose image hung right there on the wall. Perhaps the reason for the similarity was a mysterious look or a swollen lower lip; or perhaps they were united by the vulnerability inherent in youth, as well as the fear of what the future held. After taking a few more steps, I was able to discern the color of her eyes. They were an indescribable gray-blue hue, with green specks. When I stopped in front of her, those eyes looked at me. Holbein's masterpiece hung to her right. Art and life were side by side, and I immediately understood which of the two works was greater. I also knew which of them was my own reflection. I took her hand, and it felt as if I was holding my own hand or my mother's hand - a hand made of the same flesh and blood as me. Having touched the girl, I felt more confident and perfect than before. I looked long and intently into her eyes, and a slight smile touched the girl’s lips. And then I absolutely understood that I had finally found what I had been looking for for many years: I had just come face to face with my own, real, living masterpiece.