Then he stood up, wiped his eyes, and began to paint.
He scrambled backward until his spine hit a stack of old canvases. “No. No, I’m hallucinating. Stress. Grief. Dehydration.”
Elias looked at the empty canvas. At the faceless woman. At the room that had held his mother’s silence for nearly two decades.
“What are you?” Elias whispered.
Then he stood up, wiped his eyes, and began to paint.
He scrambled backward until his spine hit a stack of old canvases. “No. No, I’m hallucinating. Stress. Grief. Dehydration.” The Loft
Elias looked at the empty canvas. At the faceless woman. At the room that had held his mother’s silence for nearly two decades. Then he stood up, wiped his eyes, and began to paint
“What are you?” Elias whispered.