It was already morning, but Toren never saw the sunrise spilling through anymore.
From that night until the next morning, he painted lots of images – those that were permanently entangled with his brain.
Images he could not possibly erase with a few hours of sleep or some passing time.
He needed to paint it with his own hands, make it alive, materialize it into reality, and drill it onto a sheet.
After finishing painting a huge hourglass placed above a brown, wooden table with a beige wallpaper as its backdrop, he was finally able to put down the brush.
He sighed, looking completely satisfied with the picture before him.
The wet colors met the airs along with the creator's intense stares.
He was about to lie down on his bed, but as soon as he got up, his stomach rumbled and ached.
It felt like there was some kind of talon twisting his guts, trying to make it bleed like hell. He churned up a purple fluid.
Unsure of what that was, he continued throwing up reluctantly.
Something was pushing his intestines up across his throat.
He never recalled any food that was colored purple, which made him quite certain that whatever he was vomiting was not because of any food that his mother had given to him.
When the ordeal ended a few minutes after, he cleaned up just exactly before Coen opened the trapdoor and visited his brother.
"How are you?" Coen immediately asked, plodding near to him.
"I am fine," Toren replied, sitting on the bedside.
"You did not sleep with us. Why is that? What were you doing down here?"
Instead of verbally answering, Toren pointed at the piles of canvas sheets where he painted lots of pictures that went through his mind all night.
"You did all of these in a single night?" Coen was skeptical, but amazed. "You really are very passionate about paintings, Toren! That or the night was too long. I have never been through nights before. I would always just sleep through it."
Coen still marveled at the paintings until his little brother had already fallen asleep.
When Coen saw him, he smiled and caressed his brother's forehead, a sweet gesture which would surely make their mother's heart flutter.
"You must have been so tired," Coen whispered before finally ending his visit.
Meanwhile, Toren slowly slipped onto the dream world and saw himself in a very strange place.
He was in the middle of a sandy desert at night.
The dark night sky unfolded across an eternal horizon as if some floodgates had been open at all borders, while the land beneath followed.
He saw a very huge sandcastle – one which they have built before with their friends at the public park. He suddenly felt nostalgic and missed those days when he could somehow freely be with the family.
He was in charge of shaping the sandcastle, while the others were fetching them waters and sands, and some were yelling instructions on how to build it.
This time, the one in front of him was gigantic.
It was built for a kingdom.
Above it was a huge black dahlia flower, floating mysteriously. Across its towering entrance gate, Muren stood in front of it, paralyzed and paled.
When the sandcastle suddenly collapsed, a mysterious entity shaped exactly like Toren, like a doppelganger appeared and frightened Muren.
Things happened as fast as lightning.
Muren disappeared with his fear and Toren woke up with a heavy heart.
"It was not me," He whispered to himself, panting and catching his breath.
He attempted relieving his stress by trying to paint, but it only gave him headaches and nightmares, which he could not stand.