He said it was a hard case, hard to comprehend and, hence, hard to solve. Yet we should not muddle through: we had to keep a clear mind, and we should not assume the assassin was mad.
Picture: der “Tatort” in der ARD, source: web.de
They were aware of a change in sounds, of different scents in the air. Though they knew they were still in the same bond with the City, they did not know, now, when now was.
People walked past them, without seeing them, as if they themselves had become invisible, in a magic circle, as if they had survived a Shift in Time.
Picture: Sans Souci, Potsdam, Schlosse Nacht – ©2015 Honoré Dupuis
His gaze followed the road, as its silvery line slowly disappeared through the woods. As the sky was getting darker, he thought he would have to walk faster to avoid the storm.
This world was different, the landscape diffused, as if on the brink of disappearance. Was this reality, or only a dream?
Picture: Church in Lübars, Berlin © 2017 HonoréDupuis
The stage was set long ago, where we have to admit our guilt, the betrayal of all that we believed in, when we were young.
That innocent person, that child, has grown into this: a pretentious liar, a coward, a traitor to what is fair and noble, an unctuous criminal.
The angel is waiting, the page is blank.
We will have to confess, for once, we will have to tell the truth.
Not only tell, but write it.
It’s that, or the gun, lying on the table.
A clear choice: go to the light, or die the miserable death of the servants of the Enemy.
Picture: grave in Invaliden churchyard, near the Hohenzollern Kanal © 2016 Honoré Dupuis
She could tell from his footsteps, along the stream.
There he’d stopped, listening to the water, and to the birds.
He may even have spotted a kingfisher.
At a slow pace she followed his journey, up to the cliff.
There, she knew, the show was over.
The first time she came to this place she knew, there she would make her mark, dream, write, and create him, if she was to never find him. One morning, after she’d moved in, she woke up with a shock, he was there, very close, a few steps away.
It is one of her recurring dreams: the angel stands, high on the edge of a cliff, at night. Herself, watching the angel, can feel the old scar burning, a real fire, not the sort of fake feeling, and she can still remember it in the morning. That, the burn, and the deep feeling of joy at the presence of the angel.
Image source: Pexels
As he stood on the threshold, he sensed how brighter the light was, on the other side. There lied all the secrets, the rich treasures of the past. He took one more step.
There was a faint taste of wood smoke in the dry, vibrating air. In his mind one question lingered: would he find his home?
Photo: ancient village in Northern Arizona, © 2015 Honoré Dupuis
Francis wanted to capture the dream: for the third night, he had read the name of a place he had known, and, now, wanted to build into the story. There were three, at equal distance from each other, the monk had said. The last day, his stare fixed on some old manuscript he had dug out from the loot of a raid, years back, he’d looked for clues. In the morning, like today, he could not recall the names. Long ago, he had travelled, feverish, and briefly lived there, at the vortices of the triangle, carried away by the rage to discover the truth.
Where he was now, near the small park, in the city he loved, was one of those places, he was certain of it. He tried to lift his arm, and discovered he was almost unable to move: he would have to go back to his therapist. He had to work, look again at the archives.
In the park, he had met the shadow of an old monk, one night. That was before the first dream. The monk had spoken in an old, forgotten, language, and Francis had only understood a few words. Where were the other two places?
Picture source: Monastery Garments