The Bird

Part 2 - Andreas

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The Bird

I climb to the highest floor and the house stops being a house. Nothing makes a sound: no pipes, no cars outside, no old wood. Only my breathing and a low hum I don’t know the source of. The hallway narrows; the walls draw in a little until I reach that tall door with a round window in the center. It looks like an eye waiting for me. It has the same colors as the big painting.

I rest my hand on the doorframe. The glass is cold. I push it.

On the other side, there is no house anymore. There is open space. Grandfather is there in white, younger and older at the same time. He runs, trying to catch something in his arms. A bird suddenly crosses in front of him.

Then the picture breaks.

“I’ve got it,” he manages to say.

There is no line between up and down; everything is one heavy mass. The air smells of damp feathers, of warm flesh. Grandpa is standing on a huge rock. A sad quena plays: four notes held in the wind.

The bird is already dead. Blood drips from its beak and stains his clothes. The fabric turns red. For a moment, I think he is offering me the bird, asking me for help. The scene fills with points of light, the edge of the world shrinks. The air tightens, and a hum cuts through my chest and pushes me back.

I open my eyes.

Everything is dark. The player is off, but I can still hear a couple of chords.

I fumble for the stone. It looks cold, alive. I touch it.

I call Grandpa on the phone.

“Grandpa, are you okay?”

“Yes, son... the dream, Gael... the bird... do you understand it?”

“What?”

A thunderclap hits hard, and the call drops.

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