(picture completely irrelevant to the story)
He had only painted for a lover, long since passed. Untouched canvas had called to him every morning, waiting out his grief.
Many sunrises had tried to convince him to come back, many bright moons had worked diligently on his imagination. He would always acknowledge their supplications, and always found a distraction somewhere else. Until recently.
He returned to his small wooden stool. The brushes stood tall and ready. His oils sat patiently on the palette awaiting his command, though still silently suggesting their placements.
Somehow, his work had recently caught the attention of the village, and the neighboring towns. Art students flocked to his easel to watch him work. Young women brought him pastries, and smiling older women bumped up against him in the marketplace. Jealous men stared at him as if he were some kind of thief.