Beyond a vast and ancient forest, a small beach laid hidden beneath its cliffside. There, a white-haired painter steadied himself atop a cluster of smooth, dark stones between the slashing rock wall behind and the raging ocean ahead. As the day slipped toward dusk, the sharply red sun dyed everything around the feeble figure in violently warm hues. As if it were made of acid, the color became darker as it seeped into the rock and tempest around him, cracking and whipping with fury. Behind, shards of glowing red rock began to shatter and crash into the small space where the painter was safe from the wave’s lashes. They rained down like fire thrown upon sin.
The painter shuddered awake. The vision of this famously acclaimed painting, “Acantilado Bañado en Fuego” by the illustrious artist Casparo Torres had been tormenting him for weeks. It began immediately after he initially agreed to smuggle the stolen landscape into France. His attic studio was constantly covered in landscapes of archaic mountains and bustling cities stacked as haplessly as firewood. Naturally, this hoard proved the perfect place to hide a thief's piece until their buyer was ready for delivery. Tomorrow morning, the painter would work as a middleman and travel to the ferry with the invaluable canvas tucked neatly beneath his luggage, returning just before teatime the next day with the weight of a painting replaced by various leaflets worth a fortune. But the painter felt on edge about this particular exchange. Bombarded by strange dreams and news of heightened social interest in this heist, he hadn’t slept in days.
Desperate to calm his nerves, he shrugged on his tattered robe, nudged his worn slippers over his feet, and turned with hands wringing to ascend the stairs to his studio. As he entered, a candle in hand snapped to life, revealing everything as it should be—as it had remained for the past thirty years. All lay laden with weariness in the moonlight, wrinkles in the paint bottles and creases in the peeling walls accentuated. Floorboards crackling agitatedly beneath his feet, he set the candle on a table and crossed the room of wet, unfinished paintings toward an ostensibly uninteresting corner.
The painter reached his hand behind one of the largest canvases in the room which leaned against the wall to create a compartment where he locked away all packages. But just as he anticipated the feeling of brittle paper packaging against his fingers, he was met by empty space—then cool wood. After frantically searching with shaking hands, he whipped around at the sound of heels cracking quickly against the wood. He stared up as a dark coat retreated past the door, candlestick wobbling on the table in its wake. With one shuddered breath, the painter stood as the candle bounced to the floor below. Crossing to a small window, he could barely make out the image of a blurred figure running into the forest beyond. Yet soon he could see nothing past the copper glare of the room behind him against the glass. All began bleeding brightly within.
