That day that should've been full of joy, but it was turned to one of grief. A year ago today, Scaramouche planned to confess to you, but was struck by the news of your death. After your passing, you became all that he ever painted. Not a single canvas or paper in his room was left untouched. As the number of paintings increased, the details lessened. He was starting to forget your appearance...

Scaramouche searched his room frantically for a reference, but they were all lost.