There was a time, when painting was forbidden from human satisfaction. An artist of that time became sad. Of course, who wouldn't be? If you were forbid to do one thing you were great at, how would you react? But of course, he still painted, just not outside. He painted what it felt like to be outside. He painted the trees and breezes, the animals and humans, the flowers and hills, the castles and mountains. He painted until he grew tired. He didn't know what to paint anymore. And so loneliness became his canvas and each day, he grew sadder and sadder. A few days after, the town knew of his death. Little did he know, there was another artist, a beautiful girl who longed to be with him, has now nothing as a subject; except a lonely house in which he stood, painting.