He walked through a field where the grass recoiled, his hair buzzing with forgotten dreams. In his hand, a brush made of bone dragged through the air, unraveling light.
Each stroke peeled a layer from the sky—red mist fell, not blood, not memory.
When he stopped, the world had no color, no sound.
Only the silence where hope used to breathe.
4000 x 6000 px
Digital Painting
2025
spitfingers
