The Mansion, a grim yet fascinating building you’re facing, doesn’t exist. Maybe it once existed, but when? And was it just like this? Maybe it simply resembles the existing one or maybe it was only assembled from scraps of memories, both real and those created in books, films, or on old postcards?
The construction in front of us, although looking robust, seems to have been built from the nightmarish memories of a tormented boy. And it stands in the very center of his nightmare.
One rainy day, cold as old bones that no duvet can warm up anymore, there was a faint knocking on the door to your small-town doctor’s office. It was a stranger, a thin young boy with a face prematurely aged by suffering, who was knocking with his last strength. He fell motionless in front of you, mumbling something unintelligible. You carried him to the couch, covered him with a blanket, and bent down to examine him. Then you looked into his eyes that were like bottomless wells and felt that you were falling down straight into his dream.
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