Paintings have a life of their own, a life that derives from the painter's soul.
Luke Lorence was reminded of this as he swept his brush across the blank white canvas. With every stroke, colors began to fill the empty space. The longer he immersed himself in his art, the more the canvas seemed to pulse with life, its lines, shapes, and structures taking on a form of their own.
"That's it. We're done for the day!"
The announcement snapped Luke out of his reverie. With his brows furrowed, he stared at his half-finished painting for a long moment before letting out a sigh and standing up.
The chatter of his classmates grew louder as they gathered their things. Luke just silently cleaned his easel, packing away his materials with mechanical precision. When he was finished and ready to leave, the classroom was still alive with laughter and animated conversations.
As he stepped into the hallway, he vaguely heard someone calling his name. Yet, instead of turning back, he quickened his pace, pretending not to hear anything. Only when he had put a safe distance between himself and the classroom did he slow down and take in his surroundings.
The third-floor corridor was bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The warm light filtered through the arc-shaped windows, casting long shadows that stretched across the old stone walls, making everything look slightly dreamlike.
Luke's fingers twitched, his pulse quickening. The sight stirred something in him, a spark of inspiration and an overwhelming urge to paint. The only thing that dampened the moment was the noise of his fellow students.
Luke watched a group of college students laughing and singing below. There were some aspiring musicians with their loud voices, guitars, and speakers on the lawn, spoiling the peaceful beauty of the sunset.
Additionally, he also couldn't help but be distracted by the murmurs and conversations of enthusiastic students along the corridor. Someone even bumped into him unintentionally, but the said person didn't even turn back to apologize.
With a deadpan expression, he stopped looking around, straightened his clothes, and continued on his way home. As he walked, the sky slowly lost its orange hue, replaced by darker shades of red encroaching on the city.
Along with this, street lights began to turn on, one by one, until all the streets and roads were illuminated by them.
Well, except for one.
Luke stared up at the unlit lamp post across from him, his expressionless eyes flickering with irritation. His palm clenched into a fist as he watched the bulb for a long time before passing toward the building behind it.
Climbing up to the third floor, Luke entered his spacious apartment. After tossing his old shoulder bag onto the sofa, he opened the living room window curtains and silently gazed at the streetlight below.
It was then that he noticed a man standing across the street, staring at the same lamppost. The man didn't seem to notice Luke, even though he was just one floor above the top of the lamppost.
Luke was intrigued. 'Why is the man looking at it? Is he here to change the bulb? Does that mean I don't need to call someone?'
His thoughts were interrupted when the man finally looked up, catching Luke's gaze. For a moment, neither of them moved. Luke was taken aback, but he didn't feel embarrassed. Instead, a curiosity stirred within him, and he found himself wondering more about who the man was.
However, Luke was the first to break the stare. It was because the lamppost suddenly lit up, surprising him and causing him to instinctively close his eyes. When he opened them again, the man had already vanished.
'Where did he go? How did he disappear so quickly?'
Luke's curiosity evaporated as quickly as it had come. He closed the curtains and walked away, shaking his head.
Sinking into the sofa, he leaned back, his mind drifting. 'Why do I feel so sluggish these days?'
He touched his forehead, and it felt hot. It didn't take long for him to realize that he was running a fever.
Luke's irritation rose along with his temperature. He clenched his hands, breathing out in frustration.
He had a lot of deadlines to meet, especially that painting, which he still wasn't happy with. The last thing he could afford right now was to be sick. But his body seemed to have other plans.
For a moment, he was still, then, in a resigned gesture, he lay down on the sofa, hoping a short rest would ease his discomfort.
...
He didn't know how long he had slept, but when he awoke, golden light irritated his eyes.
As his vision cleared, his eyes widened in surprise.
Above him, several golden threads floated in the air, twisting and wriggling like ropes or worms. They seemed to pulse with life, each one writhing in its own erratic motion.
His mind raced, trying to figure out if it was a hallucination or a dream. He blinked rapidly, but when one of the strings drifted too close to his face, he instinctively recoiled.
Bam!
Luke yelped in surprise as he tumbled off the sofa, landing hard on the wooden floor. The pain was sharp and real, confirming that the strings weren't some feverish vision.
His eyes narrowed as he quickly rose and moved away from them. While rubbing his aching backside, he asked warily.
"What… what are they?"