The Faded Portrait

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 16:50:07 -

I dreamed of the door. It was red. Paint peeling. Dust thick as snow. I stood before it. My hands were cold. I wanted to knock. I did not. I turned away. I woke up. The sheets were wet. Sweat. Always sweat. "Another one, Thomas?" It was old Mr. Blackwood. He sat in the corner. Reading a paper. The paper was yellow. Old news. Old world. "I don't know," I said. My voice was dry. "Go to sleep," he...

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