01 - Portrait
Portrait
The portrait hangs at the end of the hall. It deceives you. You frequently glance at it, convinced someone is there. There is nought but the portrait. The portrait gazes back at you, as if it were questioning why you thought someone might be there. You leave.
The portrait hangs at the end of the hall. Its frame is a tarnished gold. It hangs proud against the faded brown of the wall; a barrier restraining the pale blue sky from spilling over. The lamp shade casts a deep shadow across one corner; you cannot know what is hidden there. The portrait gazes back at you, as if it were questioning what you thought you might find there. You leave.
The portrait hangs at the end of the hall. Why does it hang there? Why is there no window? It is as if this hall was extended for this portrait. Perhaps that is why you feel as though you were a guest. This is the portrait’s domain. The portrait gazes back at you, as if it were questioning what possessed you to trespass. You leave.
The portrait hangs at the end of the hall. You step closer to examine it. The paint is textured and old. There is no dust. You examine the robe: a royal red. You examine grass: a vibrant green. You examine the fine leather shoes: a glossy black. The paint is textured and old. Who has been cleaning here? There is no dust. You peer into the shadow. You find a cloud. The portrait gazes back at you, as if it were questioning how you got here. You turn to leave. The portrait hangs at the end of the hall.
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