The Angel and the Prisioner ( XIX)

Prologue

An earth toned scenario. A  shelf crammed  with books that  mark a bridge between two centuries, acting as silent sentinels of what happens a short distance from them.

Under the incandescent light of a spotlight that tries to imitate the sun on dark nights, the meeting between two opposites occurs. A book and a computer that, supported by a table covered by a thin layer of dust, seem to share a coffee talk. Sad that such dialogue is lost in the silence of old books and in the solitude of a longing chair that, in romantic melancholy, longs the warmth of its owner.

An Owner who leaves that landscape of earth tones to make her way through a dark corridor. This corridor or passage (the  common point of all the rooms in the house) was guarded by the art of great masters from different periods of painting. From French Impressionism to Spanish Dadaism, everything was perfectly placed so that all the paintings, in conjunction, told a unique and particular story. It was not uncommon to find the owner looking at those pictures every time she needed a source of inspiration.

Inspiration. That was something that the owner had been searching for days. Her friends said she was on a creative "plateau". She believed that she was on the verge of collapse, or that she had no talent for writing.

But that didn't matter now, since the owner of the house had to concentrate on the water she had boiled to prepare the fourth coffee of the night. So much caffeine was going to hurt her, but she needed it. She had a documentary to finish.

After a few minutes , the owner leaves the kitchen and walks through the shadows back to her studio. She takes a seat and put her glasses on before playing three hours long video.

Now the reason for coffee is more than understandable.

It is three in the morning and the owner of the house has fallen asleep on the desk. The computer has been turned off for a long time, prey to lack of power. Outside it rains to seas. It's cold inside. Surely there was an open window still.

A gentle breeze caresses the owner's bare neck and wakes her up. She barely gets up and closes it.

She rubs her eyes.

Yawns.

Her mind gradually wakes up.

She realizes where she is and decides to go to the bedroom.

She takes a step forward.

She trips over the desk.

She groans.

Insults and looks up.

The hall is dark. It is silent.

The owner can recognize the location of some furniture, doors and pictures in the hallway. But what she cannot recognize is that figure that is on the other side of the door.

A dark and robust figure, much taller than the owner, who watches her from the shadows.

The owner looks at him.

The shadow looks at the owner.

The shadow holds something in hand.

What is it?

The owner does not dare to go into the shade, for fear that he will hurt her.

The shadow drops what it was carrying, as loud thunder rumbled through the house, deafening the owner and distracting her for a moment.

Once the noise and fright had passed, the owner turned her gaze to where the shadow was, but there was nothing.

Nothing except for an envelope on the floor.

The owner, in a fit of madness, ran to the envelope and took it.

Said envelope,  was brown colored paper, on its back it was sealed with a kind of ... old lacquer and on its upper side was a small note.

The owner took the note and sat at her desk again ...

The note said the following.

" Aureum, 

            It is time for you to know the truth.

                         It is time for everyone to know the truth."