“Three years ago,” he said quietly, “I began to have these… dreams. At first, they were glimpses, as if I were staring through someone else’s eyes. A crackling hearth in a dark home. A bale of hay in a barn. A warren of rabbits. The images were foggy, like looking through cloudy glass. They were brief—a flash here and there, every few months. I thought nothing of them, until one of the images was of a hand… This beautiful, human hand. Holding a brush. Painting—flowers on a table.”
My heart stopped beating.
“And that time, I pushed a thought back. Of the night sky—of the image that brought me joy when I needed it most. Open night sky, stars, and the moon. I didn’t know if it was received, but I tried, anyway.”
I painted stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. I never knew why.