For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt. No matter what kind of photo Sue chooses, the story always seems to come out sinister. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something I ought to be worrying about.
Moths beat against the clear panes, and the light that streamed into the garden through the coloured glass was a rainbow of hues. Such beauty, like gemstones, and so warm. In the bitter depths of winter, the coloured light was a memory of the heat of the sun, so bright and cheerful it drew the cold and the lonely from miles around. While moths fluttered against the glass, children crept out of the bushes and held out their hands to catch the light. They stood in their thin, raggedy clothes and seemed to be able to forget the cold. Their pinched faces lit up and their eyes widened in wonder.
The light shifted. The lantern turned and light fell through another facet bathing the upturned faces in a tender green glow. Spring murmured in the sound of the moths’ soft wings, and the children smiled. Inside, through the Gothic arch full of crimson fire, a table lamp turned, casting dancing golden flower shapes into the darkness. The children drew closer and pressed hands and noses against the red glass.
In a room at the top of the west wing, a curtain twitched. He looked down at the huddled group and his eyes glittered with pleasure.
It never fails, he thought and prepared to let them in.