āThree years ago,ā he said quietly, āI began to have these⦠dreams. At first, they were glimpses, as if I were staring through someone elseās 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 briefāa 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. Paintingāflowers on a table.ā
My heart stopped beating.
āAnd that time, I pushed a thought back. Of the night skyāof the image that brought me joy when I needed it most. Open night sky, stars, and the moon. I didnāt know if it was received, but I tried, anyway.ā
Ā Ā Ā Ā I painted stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. I never knew why.