Art had always been something I loved doing. There was a certain peace that came with holding a brush in my hand, watching the paint glide across the canvas as if the colors themselves were speaking through me. I sat comfortably in my seat, my fingers stained with various shades, a palette resting on my lap. Today, I worked slowly, humming softly as I brought to life an image that had been haunting my mind for days.
I wasn’t painting something beautiful, not in the traditional sense. It was a landscape; twisted, dark trees reaching up toward a sky that looked ready to break open at any moment. A barren field stretched out beneath it, cracked and dry, as if the earth itself had given up. In the distance, a single figure stood alone, silhouetted against the ominous backdrop. The more I pain
