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He made mistakes, even more so than what a normal person would. But never had he claimed to be normal person, had he?
The paint on his hands, the smile on his lips, a veil of deception for others to see. He smiled, filled with nothing but deception.
The brush in his hand glided on the white canvas, painting the caricature of the man he loved. A smile made its way to him—
The brush fell, so did he.
Awoke the artist in a time foreign to him with nothing but a tale to tell and a series of unfinished regrets to hear of.
...
The fire took it all away, expect for the paintings for they remained intact, unable to be moved away from their grave.
Maybe it was the painter's love that protected them or maybe it was the curse that lay behind it.
Or perhaps, it was the testament of his resentment and the painter's regrets.