By the time the stars of Van Gogh's sky dimmed, and the streets of Arles faded into memory, he felt it — deep in his bones. Something had changed.
He didn't emerge from that encounter as a master of color, nor a conqueror of canvas. No. What he felt was... quiet. Like someone who'd just seen a truth too heavy to explain.
He didn't just learn techniques. He felt them. Lived them. Bled through them.
The soul of art had already etched itself into him. He had walked with the legends and painted with the mad. He had felt joy, agony, silence, and color not just as sensations, but as truths. Every line, every stroke, every silent stare into a blank canvas — it was all there now, burned into his spirit.
But even with all that, he knew the journey wasn't over. Not yet.
There were still pieces missing. Final touches. Final Brushstrokes that'd pull it all together. The kind that turns a sketch into something whole.
But he wasn't in hurry to go through them yet.
