The coal-black, sooty walls were cast in grey, crumbling shadows, while a thick layer of ash covered the streets. In places, embers glowed beneath the ash, the remains of an unquenched flame. Suddenly, a great monastery bell was coming dangerously towards me. As an unannounced storm arrived. It was attached to a strong rope to the sky and swung past me like a huge pendulum, a strong wind rising again. Crowds of people scattered in a mad, aimless disorder. Each swing of the bell retraced its course, miraculously mending the devastation. Forced by an invisible force, I entered a ruined subway entrance amidst the rubble. There, three mysterious figures huddled together, turned and locked gazes on me. They seemed eager to reveal a message, but before a word could be spoken, I backed away. Moments later, a golden cross, more than half a meter long, appeared in my grasp. I grasped it firmly and held it up like a beacon or a shield, realizing that it had the power to reverse the devastation before my eyes. Sweating feverishly, I found myself on the floor beside my bed, shaking uncontrollably for a while. My thoughts were unsteady, seeming both interminable and fleeting. My wife became concerned and asked about my dream, but I could not speak. I could only sit in silence. About a week after this surreal experience, the tragic event known as the September 11 attacks occurred in New York. I painted this canvas afterward, as a dream that came true and deeply affected me.