Portrait of Love by Jennings

The next moment, Peter woke up with a start, his heart pounding and his breathing ragged. He lunged towards the window, ignoring the fact that his body was still in a panic. His head was in complete chaos, and the pain from the nightmare he had just experienced still lingered. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then sat up, and quickly looked around.

Jennings sat on the bed next to him, his hands moving confidently despite the bright glow of the night light, reloading his camera, as always, with concentration and silence. The sounds of his actions, the clicks of the shutter and the mechanical movements, on the contrary, created a contrast with the chaos that raged in Peter's mind.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jennings looked up, noticing Peter was staring into space. His question was asked calmly, but there was a hint of worry in his voice. "Why are you screaming?"

But Peter couldn't answer. He felt his throat tighten, and fear gripped his body. He looked away from Jennings and walked to the window without saying a word. Fog and cold wind were pouring into the room, and the street outside was empty and dead. Peter looked out into the dark motel yard, where the streetlights flickered dimly, illuminating the rain marks on the ground. He felt as if something invisible was standing outside the windows, something sinister that could catch up with him again.

Jennings, picking up his camera and taking a few shots on autopilot, noticed that Peter looked... lost. He didn't know what had happened to the boy, but he knew it wasn't just a nightmare.

"Have you been having some kind of nightmare, Peter?" Jennings asked softly, coming closer and leaning against the back of the chair. "I think you need to talk."

Peter continued to stare out the window, his gaze empty and distant. It seemed as if the world around him had ceased to exist, as had his body, which stood in the room, but his thoughts were somewhere far away. He did not notice how Jennings stood up and came to him, looking at him with caution. The boy looked as if he was being sucked into something invisible, something that did not give him peace.

Jennings stood next to him, studying his face, trying to figure out what was going on in Peter's head. He knew he'd been through something serious, but maybe it was just a nightmare that could be forgotten if the boy would just talk. Jennings decided to break the silence.

"You're okay, Peter?" he asked, leaning toward him. "Do you want to talk about it? What was that nightmare you had?"

Peter didn't answer right away. His fingers nervously clutched the edge of the curtain until he finally spoke.

"It was a bad dream, Jennings. About some Jerome, about Delia York and... and about their mysterious mission in Rome."

Jennings raised his eyebrows in surprise, not expecting to hear such a strange story.

"Jerome and Delia York? That sounds like a detective story," Jennings said with a smile, trying to make the situation more tense with a little humor. "Do you really believe these stories about secret agents and mysterious missions?"

Peter remained silent, not answering. He continued to stare out the window, as if trying to return there, to his nightmare. For him, everything he had experienced in that dream was too real, too alive. He could almost feel the cold that penetrated their hearts, and that look that he could not forget - a look full of pain and hopelessness.

"It wasn't just a dream, Jennings," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "It was a warning. I saw them... I saw them moving through Rome as if their mission was more important than anything else. And every step they took could cost them their lives.

Jennings looked at Peter with mild surprise, but something in his eyes had changed. The boy was obviously deeply troubled and felt something, despite his youth. His words carried weight, even if Jennings didn't know what he was supposed to believe.

"Listen," he said, trying to make the conversation more serious, "maybe this is just your imagination, an overload? You've been through a lot lately, and if you think about it, that could have caused this dream. Now you just have to calm down.

Peter looked up, and there was something in his eyes that couldn't be made up. Jennings felt the sincerity of it hurt him.

"No, I saw it happen," Peter whispered. "They weren't just walking, they were hiding something. And every step could have been their last if one of them had made a mistake. Delia was in danger... and Jerome, he was trying to protect her.

Jennings thought for a moment, then patted Peter's shoulder in a fatherly manner and headed out of the room. Peter followed, still thinking about the nightmare that was still haunting him. He knew Jennings was trying to ease his worries, but there was something inside that made him remain wary.

As they descended the stairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and scrambled eggs greeted them in the motel lobby. The door to the buffet room opened before them. Several guests were already seated at tables, eating leisurely breakfasts and chatting. Peter couldn't shake the feeling that this entire cozy, unremarkable corner of the motel world was just a facade. There was something murky and disturbing hidden inside.

Jennings, noticing his concern, shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile:

"Well, Peter, are you feeling better now? Come on, don't worry. I see you're not fully awake yet. You just need to eat a couple of omelettes and it'll all go away."

Peter reluctantly agreed and headed for the table with food, but his eyes continued to dart around the room, looking for something that could explain all his nightmares. Jennings, taking the plate, winked at him and added:

"When I was your age, I also often suffered from all sorts of strange dreams. My grandfather said that it was the result of too many little thoughts before sleep. You had a busy night, with investigations and a bunch of strange plots, and now traces remain in your sleep."