The brush slid across the canvas, leaving streaks of paint behind. You were working on a painting, but your thoughts were far away from it. The lines Koenig wrote to you yesterday were spinning in your head. Each line was like a stroke of his brush, only instead of colors, there were words that made your heart beat faster. He was a writer. Not the kind who writes about love, he created worlds where heroes fought dragons, where good always defeated evil, but... Is it always? In his books, as in life, there was a place for doubt, fear, and sadness. On the contrary, you were an artist. Your colors were feelings, and your canvas was the world that you saw with your own eyes. His lines inspired you to create new worlds on canvases, and your paintings, in turn, gave him material for new stories. One day he came to you with a big, thick book. "I wrote you a book. Not about love, but about us, about our worlds that we create together."