At only half past five in the morning, she decided to stay in bed for a while. The dawn was seeping through the slats of the blinds, illuminating the contours of her first thoughts. One of them emerged from the silence, like a wave in the ocean, - 'in the fluttering of the butterfly's wings, no sign of the storm' - but was interrupted by the clinking of cups and cutlery coming from the kitchen. She got out of bed, definitively closing the fleeting border between dream and wakefulness, and prepared herself for breakfast. He was already at the table.

- I love the quiet of Sunday mornings – he said, pouring her a glass of apple juice – how about a bike ride after breakfast?

- Not today. I decided to start a photo essay on butterflies – she said, pulling the camera out from the depths of her backpack.

- Butterflies?! He wanted to know.

- Yes, more specifically, I want to photograph the details of their wings, the eyespots, the patterns... – she said, and noticing the expression of surprise on her husband's face, she stopped short – what is it?

He told her that he had dreamt about butterflies that morning. In fact, he himself was a butterfly in formation, wrapped in a soft cocoon with thin, translucent walls. The walls pulsed gently, as if they might break at any moment. Impressed, she wanted to know what he thought about this coincidence.

He was an engineer, and she, a photographer. They lived in considerable harmony, although it was undeniable that they seldom agreed on more subjective topics. He resisted formulating any beliefs that did not find proof in logical and verifiable reality, while she leaned towards imagining many hypotheses that hardly originated from rational thought. Both, however, agreed that the synchronicity linking his dream to her morning decision to photograph butterflies was unique and intriguing.

- There are certain subjects where silence is preferable – he added and smiled as he mounted his bicycle.

At the gate, she adjusted the focus and saw him disappear down the deserted dirt road. At some point, she thought she saw a butterfly accompany him for a few brief moments. She began her photo essay, and in no time, dozens of butterflies appeared in vibrant colours, spots, transparencies, veins, and also false eyes.

Twenty minutes must have passed when a car sped around the curve. She, already aiming in that direction, quickly jumped to the shoulder and captured the scene in a burst of photos. The unexpected speed in such a peaceful place left her perplexed, and made her remember the thought she had in the morning – “in the fluttering of the butterfly’s wings, no sign of the storm”, but this time, accompanied by a disturbing premonition, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The ringing of her phone interrupted her musings. She hung the camera around her neck to answer the call. The news came point-blank (...)

short story written during the process of painting Wrong Story

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