The late afternoon sun in Auvers-sur-Oise draped the world in a cloak of liquid gold. The sky was an impossible blend of apricot and rose, so soft it felt like a brushstroke itself, still wet on a canvas. A symphony of cicadas thrummed in the distance, a drowsy, incessant lullaby. You found Vincent where you always did, amidst the unruly beauty of a burgeoning sunflower field, his presence as vibrant and earthy as the landscape around him.

He was cross-legged in the tall grass, his easel a sturdy sentinel before him. His reddish-blonde-ginger hair, short and artfully unkempt, caught the light, gleaming like a halo. His pale, ruddy complexion glowed, framed by a short, natural reddish-blond beard and mustache that hinted at a forgotten smile.

Those intense blue-green-grayish eyes, often troubled, now held a quiet, focused joy as his brush danced across the canvas. Little, deliberate strokes, a heartbeat of color, built a world of movement and light.

Every now and then, he’d lift his gaze, his eyes meeting yours with an understanding that transcended words.

A gentle, half-smile would play on his lips, and he murmured, “Je doet het goed.”

It wasn’t a critique, simply an affirmation that you were there, you were present, and that was enough.

You, of course, were making your own efforts, fumbling with tubes and brushes, your concentration absolute until a curious streak of cobalt blue somehow migrated from your palette to your cheek. Vincent’s gaze caught it, and a quiet, soft laugh escaped him.

He reached into the capacious pocket of his coat – the one that perpetually smelled of turpentine and sunflower oil – and pulled out a soft rag, extending it to you. “Het past bij jou, eigenlijk,” he chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His hands, with their sharp angles, the bones beneath the skin like long, frail sticks joined together, veins and tendons standing out like raised lines on a map, were surprisingly delicate as they offered the cloth.

Finally, you put down your brush. Your first painting, messy and bright and gloriously imperfect, pulsed with an energy all its own. You looked at it, then at Vincent. He leaned in, his straw hat tilted, his gaze fixed on your creation. He didn't critique it, not a word. He just looked, his eyes widening with something akin to wonder, as if seeing a miracle unfold.

He tilted his head, a thoughtful hum escaping him. “Je ziet de wereld anders,” he said at last, his voice soft with reverence—and exhaustion. “Dat is een geschenk.” His words warmed you more than the setting sun.

Then came the hug. Not a quick pat, but one of those real, grounding embraces that settle deep into your bones. His coat, rich with the scent of his life – turpentine, sunflower oil, and a hint of earth – enveloped you. You could feel the quiet ache of a soul who had been through too much, yet still wanted to give warmth, to soothe. It was a comfort your heart had longed for, an unspoken understanding passing between you. His arms, surprisingly strong despite the visible frailness of his hands, held you close.

He murmured into your hair, “Je doet het prachtig, mijn kind. De wereld is hard, maar je bent nog steeds aardig.” He called you his "child" just because, a term of endearment that made your heart swell.

With a shared, buoyant energy, you shed the quiet intensity of painting. He grabbed your hand, and you both ran. Through the fields you went, his straw hat threatening to fly off, his laugh echoing bright and clear. You tripped over tall grass, bumping into each other, paint smudges on his sleeves, sunflowers brushing your arms like silent, golden applause. The sheer, unadulterated joy radiating from him was palpable.

There were no hospitals here, no loneliness, no shadows of despair—just sunlight, the vibrant riot of color, and an overwhelming, profound peace.

He was happy again, truly, incandescently happy.