the sunflower painter named boffman

"My name is Heathers, nice to meet you."

There are only ten sunflowers left in the field, and they grow scattered among the wild grass, which is particularly conspicuous.Boffman's easel was the same—it held a thick stack of paintings in the back, and the one in progress in front was new.

Boffman's hand fumbled for a small box of golden yellow paint on the ground, but found nothing.Only then did he look away from the drawing paper, and noticed a young man sitting not far behind him.He was tossing and tossing the can of paint that should have been lying next to Boffman.

Boffman mixed some other paints in the color box, but the tip of the pen stopped very close to the drawing paper and never fell down.He is not satisfied with the color.

He had to interrupt his painting process and looked at the young man.

Heathers didn't seem to notice his unhappiness: "Boffman, let me take you somewhere else. You haven't seen many corners of this city yet."

Boffman swallowed one question and replaced it with another.

"I seem to know you very well," he said. "Should I remember you?"

Heathers' eyes widened: "Why do you think so?"

"Your hair—I remember that bright, dazzling gold."

"The colors of sunflowers are not too different." Heathers suddenly lowered his eyes and smiled, "You may have misremembered."

Boffman was noncommittal.

Heathers approached him and picked up the paintbrush first: "Can I?"

Boffman subconsciously stopped the youth.The backs of their hands collided, and Boffman couldn't help trembling slightly.

The bones of his hand are like a bunch of dry wood, tightly wrapped by the little remaining flesh, which further highlights the vigorous vitality of the other hand that collided with it.

He wasn't trembling in fear of the passing of his own life, but just like those terminally ill people who smile in astonishment at the god of death beside their bed before ascending to heaven.

He didn't notice that Heathers' hands trembled at the same time.

Boffman put the unfinished painting aside, revealing the white paper behind, and took out the pen from Heathers' hand.

"I'll wash the pens." Boffman handed him another pen. "You change a painting."

Heathers squirmed his lips, but said nothing after all.He first picked some tile blue and indigo from the paint box, and smeared heavily on the drawing paper.He doesn't seem to have any proficiency in painting, which is reflected in the way he holds the pen and the way he evenly paints the picture, like a clumsy beginner-a large piece of paint dried on the paper, and even some cracks appeared, Small debris fell down, but Boffman did not frown this time, but quietly leaned against Heathers and watched.

The young man's painting method can be called unconstrained; he seems to have no concept of dogmatic structure, and he does things here and there on the drawing paper spontaneously.But his pen never stops except when dipping in the paint, and the gorgeous colors are so smooth and seamless, it's hardly like a novice's free-flowing painting, but a re-engraving of the memory in a person's mind.

"What is this?" Boffman asked, looking at a touch of green in the dark blue.

"This is the pelican vine in the Aegean Sea," Heathers said triumphantly. "Every spring when the currents warm up, pelican vines grow out of the shallow sea. Their leaves are translucent, and the moonlight shines on them." At the bottom of the sea, those leaves will reveal a light green color, moving back and forth with the rising air bubbles and the flow of the tide. Mermaids will also float to the surface of the sea to sing at this time. Their voices are graceful, and their soft hair is brighter than the brightest Silver is even more beautiful. If there are ships sailing on the sea at this time, they will stop for a short time to listen to the singing of the mermaid. It is said that after the song is over, the sailors will find that their faces are covered with cold tears."

"What a romance."

"Were you moved by the sight?"

"I mean the way you describe it, it's really romantic."

"Heart of stone," Heathers muttered, and there was a moment of silence. "You don't have to stay here all the time, this place can't even be called a flower field. You still have so many places to go. Look at the things in this painting, there are many, many places like this in the world..."

"What else is there?"

"Things that can carry people's hopes. It will make you feel that the world is interesting."

"But I won't live long." Boffman said calmly and without doubt. "I'm going to die."

He put his hand on the back of Heathers' hand - the young man suppressed the urge to tremble - he held Heathers' hand and adjusted his writing posture.

"I've never met anyone as talented as you. Your sense of color is unrivaled," Boffman said.

He has lived like a rock all his life, cold and hard, living in isolation, only when he is painting, he will show some extremely gentle expressions—just like at this moment.

"You will survive." Heathers said with his back to Boffman, still holding the pen holder in his hand.

"Really?" Boffman said.He saw the young man turn his head, the midday sun was shining on his eyes and hair.He couldn't hear the sadness in the young man's tone before, and if a passerby who was observant came here, he would also affirm Boffman's conclusion at this time—the young man's eyes were not moist.

It's as if he didn't say the previous words in that tone.

Heathers suddenly dropped his pen and grabbed Boffman's withered right hand with his backhand, as if he couldn't help it for a moment: "You know exactly what you are doing, right? You made a deal with the wizard, It must be the case that you entrust your life to these sunflowers by painting. Otherwise, in such a harsh environment, these flowers would easily sink into the weeds overnight." He continued incoherently, "I know why you do this, for what's in your heart—but they don't exist! They can't be touched. Human life is the real thing. If you survive, you can travel to other places. place, look at the flowers year after year...not necessarily sunflowers, there are others..."

"They exist," Boffman said. "They live with me. Once the flowers die, my heart dies with them."

Heathers wanted to retort, but he cast a quick glance at the sky and pressed his lips together.

"See you tomorrow, Boffman." He smiled slightly and stepped back, as if Chacai's gaffe was some kind of illusion.

"

"Goodbye," Boffman said. "Nice to meet you for the first time, Heathers."