Forgotten Strokes

Miguel is in his dimly lit studio, alone with his large canvas. The room is cluttered with art supplies. The moonlight streams through a skylight, casting an ethereal glow on his intense face. He dips his brush in cerulean blue and begins to paint waves on the canvas, deep in thought. The room smells of paint and medium.

Each stroke of paint seemed to conjure an image that felt eerily familiar.

The canvas shows a mysterious lighthouse on jagged cliffs, overlooking crashing waves. The studio's room detail fades as the lighthouse scene becomes more vivid. Miguel paints an old man in a yellow raincoat standing at a lighthouse door with a green lantern glowing beside him. The waves on the canvas seem to move, almost lifelike, and the scent of salty air fills the room.

He remembered. Summers at Grandpa's lighthouse on a solitary isle.

Miguel steps back abruptly, the brush slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor. The lighthouse light on the canvas has turned an ominous blood-red. His eyes are wide with shock and his heart pounds, a sense of dread overtaking him. Flickering streetlight from outside adds a ghostly feel to the room.

'Why did Grandpa warn me to never come back?'

Miguel stands frozen, listening as the sound of a distant foghorn blares through the night—from outside his window, not from the canvas. His face is a mix of confusion and fear as he glances toward the window. The room feels charged with anticipation, every shadow deeper and more threatening.

Before he could grasp another thought, a distant foghorn blared through the night.