DDP 29

chapter 29

Belita arrived home right away.

“I’m back.”

He knocked the dirt from his shoes in the yard with a few light taps.

“Welcome.”

Contrary to her expectation that Sylvester would be drying paintbrushes, he had a canvas spread out before him.

“Painting again?”

“I just started.”

Belita stepped inside, washed her moss-stained hands clean, and cast a sideways glance toward him.

Blue paint had only just been brushed onto the canvas.

“That’s the sea, right?”

Belita dried her hands, then came to stand beside Sylvester.

“You can tell already? I haven’t even spread the paint properly yet.”

“It’s for that little kid’s commission, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

Sylvester let out a soft laugh.

Belita thought about the child who would soon own that painting.

Just a few days ago, a poorly dressed child had come by, saying he’d heard that there was a painter here, and asking if he could get a portrait too.

Sylvester had mentioned that in a small town like this, even the tiniest things became gossip—and indeed they had.

Herbil had come by a few days earlier and told them that people were curious about Sylvester. He said some noble’s carriage had even rolled all the way into the village and stopped in front of Sylvester’s house.

Herbil had bragged that he’d used his “gift of gab” to stir up some talk—because when the tide comes in, you row. If the rumor spread wide enough, maybe another noble would commission a painting.

He’d proudly declared that he’d turned Sylvester into the town’s number one topic of conversation.

“That man… such a chatterbox.”

So it was probably because of that gossip that the child had come, without knowing a thing about commissions or business.

Belita recalled the look on the child’s face when he’d thrown open the door with nothing but his courage.

“Is this where the painter lives?!”

His brows were knit tight from nerves, his little fists clenched with determination as he stepped in, shouting, “Excuse me!”

He bypassed Sylvester, who had opened the door, and marched straight toward Belita.

That boldness was kind of cute, actually.

“Miss, are you the painter?”

Apparently she looked more like an artist than Sylvester did.

Belita shook her head.

“That person. He’s the painter.”

Only then did the boy turn toward Sylvester. Their eyes met, and the child flinched, stepping back.

He looked at himself, then at Sylvester, as if wondering if someone who looked like that could really be a painter.

Finally, after swallowing hard, he blurted out the reason he’d come.

“I-I came to ask if you could paint me a picture!”

It was obvious from his clothes that he was a local.

Sylvester asked in that low, chilly voice of his:

“…What kind of picture?”

Belita had thought, Wow. He really sounds like a demon.

Of course, she was the demon—but even though Sylvester hadn’t said anything bad, his face alone was intimidating.

If only his tone were a little gentler…

The boy’s lips trembled as he answered.

“A picture of the sea… the pretty sea down by the beach….”

It didn’t seem Sylvester had any intention of taking money from him. Instead of negotiating, he simply moved on to the next question.

“Why do you want a picture of the sea?”

“W-well…”

Sylvester’s face must have looked even gloomier when he asked, because—

“Uh….”

“…Hm?”

“…Waaaah!”

The child burst into tears.

Startled, Sylvester stepped forward, probably to comfort him, but Belita stopped him—before he scared the poor kid into a fit.

They somehow calmed him down, and when they asked again why he wanted the picture, the boy answered quietly from within Belita’s arms.

“It’s because… I’m the only one who can go see the sea.”

He had a sick mother and little siblings, the boy explained.

The younger ones couldn’t walk that far, and his mother couldn’t get out of bed.

He’d brought them seashells sometimes, but it wasn’t the same—they couldn’t see the horizon or hear the ocean’s sound through shells.

It weighed on him.

So when he heard the rumor about Sylvester, he thought—if they couldn’t go to the sea, maybe the sea could come to them instead.

Such a clever child, Belita had thought.

After hearing his story, Sylvester accepted the commission right away—no payment, just told him to stop crying and come back in three days.

“T-thank you….”

The boy had gone home shyly, hugging a baguette nearly as tall as himself—something Sylvester had randomly handed him.

Belita had waved until the boy disappeared down the path before asking,

“Why the baguette all of a sudden?”

Sylvester’s reply was utterly clueless.

“They say if you give something sweet to a crying kid, they’ll stop.”

“…Is a baguette sweet?”

“Well, no, but I just didn’t want him to cry. And it’s all I had.”

“Still, a baguette?”

“What else could I do? I didn’t have candy.”

Belita sighed—he really didn’t know how to handle children.

He could have just drawn a tiny kitten on the spot, and the boy would’ve smiled—but instead, he gave him a baguette.

…

Then again, the more she thought about Sylvester’s actions, the more his childhood came to mind.

She said nothing more.

As a boy, Sylvester had probably never known any adult who offered warmth or comfort. His older brothers, the ones who’d grown up with him, likely just tossed him something to eat whenever he cried.

Always thinking a bit of food will fix everything…

Leaving that memory of young Sylvester in the past, Belita pulled herself back to the present. Her focus returned to the canvas.

Every movement of his brush created a rich, living texture.

“…You’re really putting your heart into it.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but Sylvester replied immediately.

“Of course. It’s a commission.”

And that was all.

Unlike usual—when he’d keep glancing at her, clinging with needy eyes—he didn’t look away from the canvas once.

“Hmm.”

Belita liked that about him.

No matter how often he tried to get close to her, no matter how much he claimed to have no other interest but her, he still took his work seriously.

He respected his craft, drew a clear line between personal and professional, and she could see the devotion in his every stroke.

Belita curled up on a stool nearby, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin there. A few strands of hair slipped down her cheek.

…

She watched him like that for a while.

Perhaps he could feel her gaze, because before long, he asked,

“…Enjoying the view?”

“Mm-hm.”

I’m watching you more than the painting, though.

Belita shrugged lightly, eyes still following him.

Sylvester.

Sometimes gloomy in manner, but free of greed or malice.

Honestly, she’d been surprised at how he’d handled the child’s visit.

Even if the boy was local, she hadn’t expected Sylvester to take the job for free.

I thought he’d just say no since there’s no money in it.

But instead, he’d sent the boy home with a gift—awkwardly, yes, but kindly.

Belita realized again how gentle and consistent he really was.

Whether or not he was paid, whether his client was an adult or a child, he always worked with the same dedication.

In that way, he reminded her a bit of Cassis.

Kind, gentle toward the weak, and with a certain humane warmth.

But as soon as that thought surfaced, another followed.

Then why is Sylvester living such a different life from Cassis?

She pondered the two men she’d known.

Both were brilliant painters, both good-natured—but their lives couldn’t have been more different.

Cassis hadn’t lived in poverty.

He’d used his talent well—painting what nobles wanted, earning fame, gaining patrons, and living comfortably.

“Ha-ha! A masterpiece! Cassis Altair, your work is splendid as always!”

“To think a commoner could have such vision… Have you ever been invited to serve as a royal painter?”

True, Cassis had lived in a quiet village, much like Sylvester now did—near forests, far from crowds, surrounded by beautiful scenery.

But his reputation spread everywhere. People came from far and wide.

And with the nobles’ money and patronage, he lived well—buying good clothes, eating good food, drinking, traveling.

Even if, in the end, all that became meaningless in death.

…

By contrast, Sylvester lived a life that didn’t match his talent at all.

“…Sylvester.”

In this shabby, worn-out house, with barely any furniture…

“Yes?”

Belita thought—just as she had once known happiness, so too must Cassis have known it when he was with her.

“The happiness you wish for…”

They had been happy.

When she saw his smile, she knew that happiness had been real.

So if Sylvester could live as Cassis once had—

“Have you ever thought about what that happiness would look like, specifically?”

—then maybe he could be happy, too.

“Ahh…”

Sylvester let out a soft murmur of wonder.

Belita stayed quiet, watching him, deep in thought.

His eyes crinkled with amusement.

“So that’s why you’ve been staring this way.”

He stopped painting and met her gaze.

“You weren’t watching the painting—you were watching me.”

A bright smile spread across his face, and his lazy chuckle echoed in her ears.

He reached out and gently brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’ve thought about it often,” he murmured. “Sometimes I even tried the ones that seemed doable.”

“Like what?”

“I thought maybe if I painted more of what I wanted, I’d feel happier. So I painted everything I could think of. It didn’t help much.”

Painting everything he wanted—what an obsessive way to chase happiness.

“Anything else?”

Sylvester raised his eyebrows.

“Mr. Herbil said meeting people might help me feel less gloomy. So I worked at his bookstore, talked to customers, even went to some town events.”

He gave a small shrug. “But as you can guess from the fact that I still make wishes like this, it didn’t really work.”

“So it didn’t help much.”

Putting all focus on their conversation now, Sylvester set his brush down completely. He even placed his palette on the side table and turned to face her.

“They’re… not quite the same as happiness,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It depends on what I’m doing. Sometimes it’s relaxing, or a little energizing. But it never reaches the point of happiness. And honestly, dealing with people just isn’t my thing….”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“…But when I see you, I think I start to understand it.”

He looked down briefly, then raised his eyes to hers again.

“Happiness,” he said softly, smiling.