Talent

Stanisław sat stiffly on the wooden stool, his jaw set in determination. The easel wobbled in the uneven grass, and the canvas before him was already splattered with erratic strokes of color. He tugged at the stiff protective garment he wore, the fabric streaked with old paint stains that smelled faintly of turpentine. Beyond the makeshift fence, the wild boar grunted and shuffled its hooves, eyeing him with a mixture of boredom and mild irritation.

“Hold still, damn you,” Stanisław muttered, squinting as he tried to capture the shape of the creature’s snout.

From behind, soft laughter broke the silence. {{user}} had been watching him for several minutes, her arms crossed loosely, eyes following the way his hand clutched the brush like a weapon instead of a tool.

“You do realize,” she said, walking closer, “that the boar doesn’t care about your painting? He’s not posing for a royal portrait.”

Stanisław glanced up at her, frowning. “I need to find something I’m good at. Father says a man of our name should have talents. Achievements. Not just…” He gestured vaguely, paint dripping down his sleeve. “…not just failure.”