To outsiders, they are naturally a loving and exemplary couple.
However, this good fortune did not last long.
The henchmen, who were chasing after their escaped prey, eventually caught a whiff of the scent and visited this remote town.
To protect her lover and her newborn daughter, one rainy night, amidst the chaotic barking of dogs and shouts of people, she left home without saying goodbye and was never heard from again.
I finally understood this sorrow hidden in my blood and began to seek ways to control it.
But that's only temporary.
The more I try to suppress the urge to paint, the more it torments me, like countless reptiles crawling and biting through my veins, forcing me to submit to it and become a prisoner who only knows how to crave its rewards and release.
Finally, I couldn't hold back any longer, but I only dared to secretly use a twig I picked up to make a couple of simple strokes on the ground, just to pretend it was random scribbles. Then, when no one was paying attention, I secretly wiped it off with my toe.
But if there was a first time, how could there not be a second?
Impulse drove my body, hiding my rationality in a treasure chest that I couldn't open on my own, and then openly covering it with countless miscellaneous things. My will gradually crumbled and sank, until I finally locked myself in the dark, sunless room of my home, indulging myself to the fullest, haphazardly applying things, letting the scent of turpentine overwhelm me.
I know that my father came to see me during that time. He stood at the door and sighed repeatedly, but I didn't care at the time.
It wasn't until someone suddenly knocked on my door, shaking me violently with a barrage of light and terrible news, that I was finally awakened from that dark, almost endless nightmare hell.
In the fleeting time that I ignored, my father has grown old.
Illness and past traumas had defeated him. He was no longer the middle-aged man I remembered who would smile and pat my head, but an old man covered in age spots, frail, terminally ill, and barely able to breathe.
But after he noticed my presence, he still tried to move his dim eyes toward me, and with all his might, he gently waved.
Those hands were no longer warm or large, but they were still the same as in my memory, making me miss them.
I held those hands nostalgically, curled up beside my father as I had when I was a child, and fell asleep, but I didn’t notice when the candle that had been placed aside was overturned and the raging fire swallowed everything.
When I woke up again, I was in a hospital bed behind the healing hall. A friend I hadn't seen in a long time held my hand, tears streaming down her face, and cried out about how she had missed me after so many years apart, and how terrified she was when she learned I had been engulfed in flames. Finally, I asked her about my father. My friend was silent for a long time, and only replied with a simple "Please accept my condolences."
My hopes have been dashed.
My life no longer holds any meaning.
I was trying my best to improve my father's life, but I absurdly succumbed to my own desires and impulses, which ultimately led to irreversible consequences.
Is this my punishment?
Is this punishment for not being able to control my impulses?
After leaving the healing sanctuary, I lived an even more aimless and confused life. My friend used to inquire about me from time to time, wanting to care for me and help me escape the shadows of the past. But in the end, she moved on to a new life, gave up, and chose to leave me.
I began my wanderings.
I have traveled to the highest mountain in the world, passed by the ruins of ancient battlefields, visited remote coastlines, and explored uncharted territories.
Until one day, someone suddenly stopped me halfway through the journey, looked me over for a long time, and then handed me a paintbrush.
"Give it a try."
His voice was very androgynous, and his petite figure was encased in a simple hoodie and trousers. A few strands of his fine, dark blue hair peeked out from under his hat, and a blue ribbon was tied around his neck, making it difficult to determine his gender. The only thing that remained in memory was the slight upturn of his lips, a faint smile that carried a hint of allure yet a touch of understated elegance.
You'll like it.
How ridiculous! Am I supposed to believe everything he says? Even if there really were such a fool, it certainly wouldn't be me.
I didn't want to pay attention, but my body moved uncontrollably to reach out and take the paintbrush, then put it into my bag.
After that, I never saw that person again; he continued to wander around as usual.
When I finally remembered to go home after wandering around for a while, I found the paintbrush at the bottom of my bag while recounting my past experiences to my father's tombstone and searching for souvenirs.
An impulse surged within me once again.
Now that I have the paintbrush in my hand, shouldn't I... paint something?
As I looked at the brand-new canvas laid out before me, the image I wanted to paint gradually took shape in my mind.
I……
"Mr. Yumi! Wake up!"
A sudden, sharp shout came from beside my ear, and then I noticed a change in the light overhead.
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