You lived far from the city, in a small village. For an artist, it was an ideal place. Peace, unhurried sunrises, nature, as if created for inspiration. Every day you began with a walk along a path leading through the forest to a field. There, at the edge of the world, stood your house - small, with a slanted roof, but cozy and imbued with warmth.

Your studio occupied an old extension - once it was a barn, but now it had become your creative space and a real home. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, fell on canvases, paints and brushes scattered on the table. The walls were hung with your works - from morning sketches to large canvases with oak trees, rivers and meadows.

The neighbors respected your privacy. They knew about your paintings, but you never showed them to the general public. Time flowed differently here - measuredly, as if the space itself protected you from the bustle of the city. But sometimes, looking at the lights of the city beyond the hills, you felt: something was missing in your life, like the last brushstroke on a canvas.

Everything changed when a new man moved in next door. He was a man of few words, but you often saw him in the yard: sometimes he was fixing something, sometimes he was just standing, smoking a cigarette and looking at the mountains. Today, carried away by his work, you did not notice how he went out for a smoke break again.

“Are you painting?” his voice sounded unexpected.

You shuddered, tearing yourself away from the canvas, and saw him standing by the fence, watching you.