Every night. The same dream. For weeks now.
He knows he’s not a foreteller – as such the dream makes no sense.
Why have the same one though? No deviations. He dreams in full technicolour, sounds, even smells. Which is quite wierd for him. He’s not the kind of man to remember his dreams. Or dwell on them. Life has taught him that dreams are for other people. Not somebody like him!
Still. He dreams. Every night.
He’s in a big house. Or it might be a castle. The walls are stone. Hung with tapestries of long forgotten battles, fought by long forgotten heroes. A row of suits of armour lines the wall of the big hall. Tall sash windows show him beautifully manicured gardens at dusk, the sun just setting on the horizon. A few stray rays still light up the bevelling, shooting prisms of multicoloured light into the room, making the dusty air dance.
He walks through a set of doors – one of many from this room. Only ever the one set though, never the others – he has no idea where the others may lead to, if anywhere.
He enters a foyer. Not just any foyer though. It’s at least 2 stories high. Parquet floors make his footsteps ring hollowly in the darkening room. A slight breeze makes the enormous chandelier tinkle.
He feels the wind getting stronger. Hears the front door rattle from it.
Suddenly the front doors blows open, slamming against the walls. The grand entrance to the house is suddenly filled with billowing dust, leaves swirling in the gusts. And behind it, lightning, and the appearance of a figure in sillouette.
He hopes that, one day, the figure will become clear.
Then he will know how his life is about to change.