Shadows Of Dust | ✓

Part (III) Shadows of dark

      A gentle hush cloaked the land.

     The fire baptised in heat as the lonely sky outside hung sadly.

      He could see a few kids running through the frozen pond now. It's been a while since the last encounter; a harsh bite on frozen face. His boots crunched through the snow, as he strode towards the studio.

     Nothing sounded, nothing stirred, nothing sang.

    Only rosy smell around the studio. He started in the fire pit, it crackled and spat before hissing into life. Its lucrative light stole the black shadows dancing on the wall. He almost believed in delusions of thoughts that perhaps the black never emerges in glow but rather in dim light.

     The chuckling and chortling filled his ears. He's never been too ecstatic about art yet something that mysterious arrow always hits on the chords.

     Warmth flooded in the room as the fire came alive.

     He's been in this gallery often, due to his ardent friend; fascination of youthful joy and cries in the dipped colours— somehow he, too, started to appreciate the little artwork.

     His friend, Basir was so engrossed with colours and canvas that he couldn't sense his friend's presence until he was shaken by shoulders. A surprising glance, surveying a warm smile, Basir greeted him.

     "What's the treasure hunt you're hiding, this time my friend?"

     "Nothing much, just trying to pour soul into my canvas. You know, how the painters work. For them, their work is their god to be worshipped and furnished."

     Basir was satisfied with his art; he looked solemnly and wondered at the mirrored personality, a smile of pleasure took upon his lips. He couldn't resist the urge to know the reason behind this triumph smile.

     He raised his eyebrows through the thin foggy vision and asked, "Won't I have a chance to see?"

     A great storm was screeching through. Doom-laden clouds; bloated with hatred, had roiled in the sky before unleashing their vengeful wares. Wind, it's never forgotten; preparing for the unleashed truth.

     Basir cried of joy, "Of course!"

     He wiped out his hands in the rugged cloth and left the canvas to be soaked in golden rays. "Would you like to have something?''

     He shaked his head in denial but strolled near the fire pit now. Far beyond him, coils of smoke drifted up from sleepy blankets.

     Shadows, shadows of dust never appear in fair light.

     But to influence a person, it's like playing with their souls. You corrupt their minds by using words that burn their natural thinking. And they see what you want them to see.

      Tap, tap! Tap, tap! In the fortune tapping sound, fate was changing its glamping resorts in white and silver but what about grey?

     "Here, have a look!"

     He turned aside the history book, preceding with his earlier notions he thought maybe it was another masterpiece by Basir.

     "Sit down, pay attention to every detail."

     But he was already stunned to pay attention. The painting got alive; a painter's magic of brushes. Those eyes; he was too familiar with those rose-red eyes, rose-white youthful praise, that made him terrified, uttered passion that made his cheek red—

    "Isn't she a beauty?"

     "Who's she?"

     "Julias Murphy. A real exception. She's an artist."

     "Where's she now?"

      "Disappeared a few years ago. Nobody heard from her till now. There's a rumour of her affair."

       "Do you reckon, she may have come back?"

     Basir shrugged his shoulders and tossed his head in the side to assess his friend. "What's with you today?"

      What he could have said there is that he's met this mysterious beauty twice!

     A single candle twinkled merrily by the window. A last hope before demise, melted wax to burn in fire!

     He hissed and hurried his way outside. The jingling of the doorbell rang with his departure.

     "Yeah, that's what happened!" He said while passing his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight and turned to face again.

     After the little encounter with Basir the other day; he was terrified to come up with any conclusion about what may have actually happened. He tried and tossed in his bed the whole night but nothing made sense. He didn't have any choice but to pray for a visit from Sherlock Holmes.

      Here he was anxiously waiting in the consulting room, dressed in a suit of heather tweeted with a soft cloth cap and a handkerchief on his other hand. He was exceedingly pale; suffering from the strong agitation. He took all his strength of mind to control the nerves.

      The storm was bursting out and the inner heat flooded on his face now.

     Unholy mixture of shale-grey and pastry streaks.

     "I apologise for making you wait so long."

     He lifted his eyelids to see that shadowed appearance, "It's no problem."

     "Please sit, I beg that you will draw some light and favour me with some details about your case."

    "It's mysterious and inexplicable, I doubt you ever heard of such a case."

    "Enlighten me!"

     He puffed, still gesticulating but with a fixed look of grief he tried to get his words out but none came. After heaving a sigh, he explained the hideous encounter to him.

     "I see that you have had some great trouble there," responded holmes.

     "God knows I have— her last words, it's a promise to meet again!"

      The world was entombed in a doom silence, nothing but the last few flames trying to keep light in the dark shadows.

      "To the man who loves for its own sake," remarked Sherlock and rose lazily from his armchair, standing with his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

     "It is frequently in its least important that your lowest manifestation derive you through keenest pleasures."

     "Was I supposed to be hallucinating?" He cried.

    "You've erred, perhaps in attempting to put colour & life, confining yourself to believe in the task of effects, which merely transferred reality," Holmes said, taking up a glowing ciger in his lips.

     "No, no! It must not be a conceited foolishness."

     The wind now snarled and mewled with deadly voices.

      Like a wailing spectre, praying to be saved.

     Suddenly— there's loud knocking at the door. Even if his knees nearly gave up, he got up with wobbling feet to answer the door.

     "I apologise for making you wait nearly an hour. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson got stuck somewhere due to the heavy storm. I would suggest you go back home," said the maid.

      His frightening eyes loom over the figure now. He gulped, but alas! It's dissolved into the thin air. No shadow by the window; only a faint candle twinkled merrily.

       The world was becalmed. The furious wind tempests had given too much of themselves. Now the blasting and blaring was over. This was the aftershock.

       And He fainted.

       Was it possible for centuries old love to come back?

history must be continued,
history must repeat itself.