The next morning, sunlight gently penetrated through the slightly faded curtains of the small room, casting dancing patterns on the yellowed walls. My eyelids opened with difficulty, weighed down by an inexplicable fatigue and the echo of a dream whose details were already fading. A dream, or perhaps a memory? I wasn't sure. All I knew was that my heart was still racing, as if something essential had slipped through my fingers.
I remained lying there for a moment, staring at the wooden ceiling, slightly yellowed with age. The atmosphere was peaceful, almost too calm. The contrast with the turmoil of my thoughts made this tranquility feel almost oppressive. Fragments of the dream came back to me, blurry fragments: the face of a man, both tender and strong, and a cradle holding a baby whose face was hidden from me. Why had these images left me in such a state? Why did I feel as though these faces, though blurred, were more real than the room I was in?
