Faro lay on the hard ground beneath the endless canopy of stars, Rita’s quiet breathing nearby the only sound. Exhaustion claimed him, and soon his mind slipped into the shifting fog of dreams.
At first, the vision was sweet. He was no longer a wanderer or a fugitive of fate—he was a man of wealth and stature. Before him stood a grand mansion, its marble pillars gleaming in the daylight, banners with the Falcon crest fluttering in the wind. Ronda Riy was there wearing her big round glasses, her expensive black dress swaying as she ran toward him with a smile that melted the bitterness of his waking life.
“You did it, Faro,” she said, clutching his hand. “You’re not poor anymore. We don’t have to struggle. We can live here together.”
For a fleeting moment, joy filled him. He saw her laughter echo in the halls of his estate, her presence softening the edges of luxury. The dream wrapped him in warmth—the life he had secretly longed to give her.
In the dream, wealth does not trickle—it cascades. Faro’s mansion stands proud at the heart of Thundarr City, its gardens sprawling like emerald oceans. Fountains of crystal water sing in the courtyards, and servants bow as Faro and Ronda pass, though neither of them need such obeisance.
Inside, the halls glow with warmth. Sunlight pours through vast windows, spilling across velvet rugs and chandeliers. Ronda runs through the corridors barefoot, laughing, her skirt fluttering like a blue flame. She stops only to press her lips against Faro’s, her joy untainted by worry or want.
At night, they dine in gold-lit rooms where polished silver gleams, and the air tastes of roasted duck, sugared fruits, and sweet cola. Ronda leans close across the banquet table, her voice soft and proud:
“You gave me this life, Faro. You gave us freedom.”
She leads him to the balcony overlooking the city. Below, crowds chant his name as though he were a king, their cheers rising like a hymn. Ronda takes his hand, rests her head against his shoulder, and whispers:
“We’ll never be poor again.”
Together they stroll through art-filled halls, rooms lined with books, gardens where roses bloom even in winter. In the evenings, she curls against him on silk sheets, smiling as though the world has finally given her peace. For the first time, Faro feels whole—his love returned, his dignity restored, his name honored.
But then, as dreams so often do, it shifted. A shadow stepped into the mansion’s bright corridors. Flint. His older brother, smiling with that sly, poisonous grin. Faro’s chest tightened as he saw Ronda’s eyes turn toward Flint.
At first, it was just a glance. Then it was more. Flint whispered in her ear, touched her hand, and soon their closeness burned in Faro’s vision like betrayal carved into stone. Ronda laughed at Flint’s words, her warmth now shared with him, as though Faro were fading into the background.
The mansion, once a monument to triumph, warped into a cage of mockery. Faro stood powerless as Flint’s hand slipped around Ronda’s waist. Her smile—once his—now belonged to another.
And in the pit of his heart, Faro felt the sharp stab of envy, rage, and despair.
He jolted awake under the open night sky, sweat running down his brow. Rita stirred beside him, her eyes half-lidded. “Another dream?” she murmured softly.
Faro didn’t answer. He only stared upward at the cold, distant stars, the ghost of Ronda’s laughter and Flint’s treachery still echoing in his mind.
For the poem (surreal version):
“Echoes in the Marble Dream”
He sleeps beneath the sky’s black mirror,
and the stars melt into chandeliers.
A mansion rises where the soil should be,
pillars carved of silver, walls whispering wealth.
Ronda waits at the gates,
her round glasses gleaming like twin suns.
She is smiling,
smiling as though hunger and dust never touched them,
smiling as though the world had finally bent in his favor.
“Faro,” she breathes,
“you are no longer poor.”
Her voice drips honey,
her hand a promise in his.
The halls echo with laughter not his own.
Shadows spill from the corners like ink.
From that ink steps Flint,
his eyes twin knives,
his smile a fracture in the dream’s bright glass.
Ronda turns—
not with fear,
not with reluctance—
but with warmth that was once Faro’s alone.
Her laughter rings again,
but now it bends toward Flint’s ear.
Her hand slips,
not into Faro’s,
but into his brother’s.
The mansion trembles.
Pillars bend like reeds,
marble drips into mud.
The chandeliers collapse into a swarm of black birds,
their wings scattering the light.
Faro reaches, but his arms are stone.
He screams, but the air is water.
He watches as Flint and Ronda disappear
into a corridor that stretches forever,
their laughter echoing, echoing, echoing—
until it is all the dream holds.
He awakens gasping,
the stars above colder than glass,
and the earth beneath him
harder than betrayal.
