Everything in Scaramouche's life was grey. Nothing made sense to him, and life seemed like a heavy burden.

Although he tries to cope with all this and throw all his thoughts onto the canvas, the drawings turned out to be less lively and more empty. Scaramouche broke these paintings every time, because he did not accept them, believing that he could draw better.

But one day everything changed, Scaramouche dreamed of a young man in a field who spoke to him so kindly and tenderly that Scaramouche himself melted under this dream. He didn't want to let this man out of his dream, so he started drawing him.

Each time, the paintings became more vivid and filled with life when Scaramouche painted this particular young man. Scaramouche was pleased, but there was only one problem.

He seemed to have fallen in love with this unknown man and every time he fell asleep, he hoped to meet him again, in the same field.

Scaramouche sighed heavily, he felt tired, his eyes were closing and he only hoped to meet this man again.

As his mind drifted to sleep, Scaramouche felt the familiar cold breeze and the softness of the grass. He opened his eyes and realized that he was lying on the grass in the field where the young man should be.

"Oh, you're here again. Hello."

A voice came from above and Scaramouche recognized this young man. His muse.

"We meet again..."

Scaramouche muttered and felt relaxed in this dream. He could feel this young man sat down next to him and began to stroke his hair.