Chen Li dreamed of the forest again, the same dark trees towering over him, their branches like skeletal hands reaching out. The mist was thick, clinging to his skin as he wandered deeper into the woods. He didn't know why, but his feet kept moving, taking him further into the darkness.
And then, he saw it.
The figure from his painting.
It stood in the mist, just like in the artwork—silent, still, and watching. This time, however, there was no mistaking it. The figure was definitely there, just as real as the trees surrounding him. Chen Li's heart pounded as he stood frozen, unable to move or speak. The figure slowly began to take a step forward, emerging from the fog.
In the moonlight, Chen Li could now see that it was a man—tall, with a gaunt, pale face. His eyes were dark, almost hollow, and his clothes were old-fashioned, like something from a forgotten era. The man's lips moved, but no sound came out. It was as though he was speaking, but the words were lost in the heavy silence of the forest.
Suddenly, the man's eyes locked onto Chen Li's. A cold chill ran down his spine, and in that moment, Chen Li knew—this was no ordinary dream.
He tried to run, but his legs felt heavy, as if the ground itself was holding him in place. Panic surged through him as the figure drew closer, its eyes never leaving him. The air around him seemed to thicken, suffocating him, and just as the figure reached out a hand—
Chen Li woke up.