ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆
The dream was good.
Sounds of the ocean could be heard in the distance. Tallulah had been walking down a familiar dirt road, rocks poking the inside of her heel every now and then. She was barefoot for some odd reason. She smelled the pine trees that whistled with the wind and the grass, which seemed freshly cut, yet she couldn't place her finger on where she was.
She walked for miles, never growing tired, never needing rest but having an underlying feeling of urgency nonetheless. Her mind swayed as the sound of the ocean finally got louder, and she stumbled upon what must have been her journey's meaning. A small white house with a front porch and a bright yellow door appeared on what seemed like the final curve in the dirt road.
However, as much as the girl would have liked to go to the house, her feet led her elsewhere, as if knowing there would be a later time she would be allowed back there. Instead, she went toward a small shed on the outskirts of the property, taking the big rocky road to a smaller one. This road was not even a road at all, more of a path, outlined by grass mower treads and emphasized by bunches of primrose.
The redhead crept into the open door, the windows illuminating beautiful carvings of furniture with glowing sunlight. The patterns in the wood were intricate, detailed beyond what she thought anyone could possibly do. She was left alone in the woodshop until a man with dusty golden hair and blue eyes came into the shed, not paying the girl any attention.
Then she knew, as if it were some big secret she was finally let in on: it was her father, Westley. This was his woodshop, and she was in her home. He walked around her like she wasn't even there, like she was a ghost and it wasn't he who was the dead one—Tallulah was. He hummed to himself an old love song, she was sure.
So this is love.
Her father's raspy, yet somehow smooth as silk, voice began to sing. The softest of smiles began to appear on his face as he sat down and began to carve something into a small piece of wood, a scrap of sorts he was probably just messing around with. No thought needed for it to be perfect.
So this is love.
He hummed without a care in the world, as if there was nothing going on in the world that would cause him any harm. Little did he know. Yet, this world was such a peaceful one. The golden sunshine was that of a sunset, golden hour, she supposed. What would it have been like if this reality was the one? Maybe this was heaven; it would make sense, would it not? How could she be this happy, this at peace? By the beach here again in golden hour...
So this is what makes life divine.
His curly blonde, dusty hair flowed slightly as the wind picked up. It came off of the waves, brushing through the now whistling pines again. Her attention was caught back to the ocean; something else was calling her. Her feet were taking her out of the woodshop now, her toes tickling under the long grass, no longer following any dirt paths or rocky roads.
I'm all aglow.
The small murmurs of her father's raspy silk voice could be heard, carried through the wind's whispering all about. Now she was taken to the steps of her house, the wraparound porch, the plants that hung on the overhang of the structure. The yellow door, washed out only from the constant hits of salt air, creaked open again, much like the woodshop's door from the breeze.
And now I know.
The wood floor of the old beach cottage let out creaks and moans with every one of her steps. The windows let in the familiar sight of dawn in the old house. Old lamps began to flicker on of their own accord in a somewhat odd, comforting way, as if the house was saying its own welcome home. The warm light of the lamps illuminated the way into the kitchen, where a woman with hair as red as the girl's painted something on an easel. A lighthouse.
And now I know.
Fiona was an art teacher in the small town nearby, but she had a way to bring things to life. A rough wave crashing into the lighthouse, the dark clouds in the painting indicating a storm. Her hands worked meticulously, her fingers dancing across the painting, the colors splashing and sparkling onto the canvas. The only time she paused her heavy brow of concentration was when Westley came up behind her, whispering softly, still singing into her ear, and handing her the small piece of wood he had been working on in his shop.
That key to all heaven is mine.
It was her. Her father had carved her mother's face into the piece of wood—her lips, her nose, even somehow carving her eyes in the same glimmering way the rest of the world saw them. She watched as they gave each other a soft kiss in the kitchen before she turned, leaving them in their world, undisputed and undisturbed. Now she climbed the stairs, going past her parents' bedroom and up to her own. It was a small room, made to be an attic but converted into the girl's living space.
My heart has wings.
The room was just how she had left it as a child. A messy comforter, the window propped open with a stick she had found one day while exploring, the sound of the waves and the wind pouring in. The girl sat down on her bed, her hands grazing upon something cold and smooth. Her guitar, one she seemed to remember burning years ago now. She let her hands dance along the strings only for a moment, just content with the feeling of playing nothing for a second.
And I can fly.
Her gaze fell upon the view outside of her window. The moonlight now caught glimpses of the gleaming water. A midnight blue shade of what could have been had she somehow chosen this life. She was called yet again to go back downstairs and past the small house to the beach, to the real meaning of the dream, the real meaning of being. So the girl did, walking all the way back downstairs, past the kitchen which was now devoid of her parents, and to the back porch, where she saw him.
I'll touch every star in the sky.
Of course he was here. Why wouldn't he be? He had his back to her, looking out on the ocean, by his words for the fourth time, or maybe he had been here long enough to experience the ocean as many times as he wanted to. Tallulah walked out slowly, as if she could scare him away. Her toes felt the sand, the small spritz of cool ocean saltwater hitting her face. She finally reached his side and looked out over the ocean with him.
So this is the miracle I've been dreaming of.
Wordlessly, Jamie reached an arm around her, pulling her in and kissing her on top of her head. Tallulah said nothing, resting her head on Jamie's shoulder and continuing to look out on the water, with its moonlight dancing off the waves. She felt Jamie's head settle gently on top of hers, and finally, she found the thing that had been calling her this whole time. Jamie had.
So this is love.
And then she woke up.
Blu Speaks!
I love this chapter so much.
We have a dream sequence every season, this being the last one, which one was your favorite?
