A few days later, the artist actually came back. His look was priceless. He came over the hill with some paint and a brush in his hand, as if he was planning to resume the painting that he had started. Alas, all he found was the tattered remains of his hopes and dreams. It was a pity that he wasn’t close enough for his facial expression to be seen.

He came down to the edge of the water and dropped the paint and brush. They fell to the ground next to the painting. The paint dumped out, ruining the paper even more and splashing onto the artist’s pants. Ignoring the paint and birdcrap, the artist fell to his knees and hugged the paper to his chest. It let out a crinkling noise, standing out because the artist himself didn’t even let out a squeak. Honestly, what did he expect?

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As if the artist heard the narration, he stood up and let out a shout that was primal in nature. Raw emotion raged as his tore the painting from the rest of the paper and tore it in half. Then, he picked up the last piece of the easel and stabbed it through the remaining paper before stomping on it and fracturing it. His anger at the destruction of his hobby made him do the finishing blow himself.

Next, he seemed not to know what to do. He ran his hands through his oddly styled hair before tearing out a large tuft, giving himself a bald spot. At that point, he was a babbling mess that wandered towards the bridge. With all the bridges he’s been burning, was he thinking of literally burning a bridge? He kicked at the ground and flailed around senselessly for a minute. Then, a metallic sound rang out one of the times he was kicking at the ground. His anger faded, replaced by curiosity as he picked up something that had been buried just below the surface.