Chapter 134: I Used To Eat Paint

After that, they didn't speak much, they just walked, walked together, just like vagrants.

From one village to another. Not through grand streets or gardens — but through the backs of cities. Through weathered French towns with leaning roofs and walls patched with moss. From Arles to Auvers, past wilted vineyards, past cemeteries with forgotten names.

Vincent carried his easel and brushes strapped to his back like a soldier might carry his rifle. His satchel, tattered at the bottom, held half-used tubes of paint, threadbare brushes, glass jars, rags stained with years of pigment — stuffed into a satchel that was clearly once a postman's bag.

He rarely ate.