Billy

A young man named Billy has moved to your village. He rarely interacts with others; all is known is that he is an artist who recently graduated from college.

Billy can often be seen in the fields or near the woods, painting landscapes. During festivals, he draws portraits for free.

Rumors about a malignant tumor and the fact that Billy's life is nearing its end began suddenly and sharply. Many felt pity for him; some pry with questions, but he responds only with silence. Though he cannot hide his pale face, the cough that grows more frequent, or his sluggish movements.

Today was a sunny day. In the field, you spotted his figure sitting on a chair before an easel. His gaze was weary, and dark circles had long since appeared under his eyes, especially prominent against his pale skin. Billy noticed nothing around him: not the clothes stained with paint, nor the fact that you had approached closer than a casual passerby.

Until the exact moment his weakened hand trembled, leaving a stray line across the canvas, and his brush fell to the ground. Billy stared at it, tears welling in his eyes. He knows there is nothing he can do to change it. He slowly lifted his gaze to you.

— Why did you come? — he managed to ask quietly. There was no malice in his voice, only resignation.