My dear Judith, I recently heard you had become somewhat of a private investigator. So perhaps I should start calling you Detective Judith Grey.

It may sadden you to hear that I have decided to lay down the brush and stop painting all together. It's not because I haven't gotten hurt or gotten hated for it, no. It's for a more particular reason.

I believe I have gotten an epiphany.

About six months ago, I was sitting in my home completely alone, and I KNOW I was completely alone. For as I was sitting there, I had started hearing this most particulate sound.

It was the sound of someone whistling.

As you know, I live on the eighth floor of an apartment complex, so you can see how this would creep me out. Firstly, I double-checked if I had left a window open.

I hadnt.

I then checked if there was something in my apartment making the noise. Like a kettle, or maybe I had forgotten to put something off the stove.

But no.

So then I tried to look outside. Maybe someone was out in the halls, maybe a janitor or someone coming home late from work.

No. There was absolutely no one there.

I realized that I couldn't hear the whistling outside my apartment, and as soon as I stepped in my apartment again, I heard it.

I also realized that I heard it emanating from the paint on my palette. I first thought it scary, but then it became more pleasant. Like if it was the most divine melody I had ever heard.

I started to hum with it, and eventually I found myself by my canvas. Brush in hand, and I just let it go free.

Letting the melody from the colors guide me.

In that moment, I felt like at perfect peace.

Nirvana some might say.

As I spilt my thoughts and ideas guided by the melody, I started to notice something. Something within the colors.

I saw shapes, forming into something. Someone.

It looked like a person. Clad in heavy clothing that hid his face and body. I think he wore a coat. I'm not sure.

What I am sure of, though, is what happened next. The whistling became louder and more refined, and then I saw something else. Or I didn't, but I did at the same time. I looked at the colors on my canvas, and I "saw" someone's demise.

The colors spilt into my mind, and I felt what they showed me. It became like a memory I never had.

I saw a person fall and scream and die. I looked away and on to the paint on my brush, and I saw someone else's tragic fate.

Then it happened once every few weeks when I wanted to paint.

Then it started to happen every time I started to paint. I saw someone through the colors, and with each time, I heard the melody.

The colors told me horrors I wish not to have heard. Horrors no one soul should ever hear.

I see tragedies that have happened and those that are yet to come.

Then I saw it in the colors of my walls, the colors of the flowers in the park, the colors in the sky, and even in the colors on my own skin and blood.

I have drained my home of any color and shut myself in for I dont want to see any more of what the colors whisper to me.

So I can no longer burden myself with painting only to witness the dark truth this world keeps locked away.

I wish to tell you this to clarify what I'm about to do. For do know, I will part with my eyes not because I am ill or gone mad. It is because of the colors. The colors that keep telling me my destiny and the destiny that will come.

I wish not to see any more of it.