A young man stumbles through his room, bumping into everything that comes in his way, his eyes filled with urgency.
"Where is it? I know I kept it here somewhere," he mutters anxiously.
Just then, Heinrich Henry walks in, shocked by the mess.
"What are you doing, Leonard? Why have you turned this place upside down?" he asks, concerned.
"I can't find my bucket of white paint. I've run out of the one I was using," Leonard says in frustration.
Henry hesitates, holding the very bucket Leonard is searching for. Trying not to make eye contact, he gives an awkward smile.
"Hi," he says, sheepishly.
Leonard, covered in paint stains and charcoal marks, stares at him. Henry removes his hat and returns the bucket.
"I'm sorry, my friend. I shouldn't have taken your things without asking."
Leonard grabs the bucket with a swift gesture. "Yes, you should be sorry," he says dryly and walks toward his studio. Henry quietly follows.
Inside, the room is full of paint splatters and brushes scattered everywhere.
"I just wanted my apprentice to see your materials," Henry says softly. "The white paste made from snow dragon scales is an antique."
"Yes," Leonard replies, "that's why the royal palace wanted me to paint the royal family portrait using it. They all wore white that day just for reference."
Henry nods. "It's rare for the royal family to share something made from the snow dragon. It's been extinct for over a century."
"109 years," Leonard corrects him.
Henry smiles faintly. "Yes, 109 years ago. Many royal women lost their husbands in that hunt. I see why the paint is considered a treasure."
Leonard adds his finishing touches. "So why are you still standing there?"
Henry sits down. "I meant the painting from Persia," he says.
"It's done," Leonard replies. "In the hall, with my other deliveries."
Henry unwraps the painting, mesmerized. "Leonard, it's beautiful," he says softly.
Leonard smirks. "As always."
After a pause, Leonard says, "Henry, could you book me some tickets to Berlin?"
Henry frowns. "You're going out again? To meet more ex-veterans?"
"Yes, and this time, get me a private compartment. The first-class one didn't feel right last time."
Henry laughs. "Your 'struggle' sounds quite comfortable, traveling first-class."
Leonard shrugs. "Sometimes a man must return to the way he lived during struggle."
A few days later, Henry brings the tickets. "Your train is at six. Don't be late," he teases, knowing Leonard's habits.
He switches on the radio, which crackles to life:
> "This is Vice-Chancellor Smith from the Austrian Palace. Austria is under attack. We are at war with Germany. All citizens are advised not to travel to Germany."
The radio fades to static.
Leonard emerges, impeccably dressed — grey trousers, a checkered blazer, and a black tie.
"Leonard, you can't go," Henry pleads. "It's war out there!"
Leonard smiles faintly. "I know. I'd better hurry."
"You could die!"
"And what if I do? It's not like it's my first time dying."
Henry, trembling, says, "But this time, you'll die for real."
Leonard turns to him. "My craft makes me who I am. Even if I die, my art will keep me alive forever."
"But think about us," Henry whispers.
"I am. But I need to capture the stories of the fallen soldiers. I couldn't be a soldier myself — so I will serve them by painting their truth."
Henry, eyes wet, grabs his shoulder. "Can't you be selfish once? My father died in the war twenty years ago. I can't lose you too."
Leonard embraces him. "We'll meet again." He picks up his luggage. "My studio is in your care." He tips his hat and leaves.
---
Days later, Henry visits two graves — Leonard's parents and a third, freshly marked one.
Years pass. Every September 9th, Henry visits Leonard's old studio, talking to him as if he's still there.
A young guard once asked, "Sir, why do you come here every year?"
Henry smiles faintly. "Because this is the day my friend — the painter of the fallen — left for Berlin."
The guard, realizing, asks, "The Leonard Johan? The painter who captured the souls of soldiers?"
"Yes," Henry says quietly. "He went to paint their courage — and never returned."
Leonard had died in Berlin, caught in a bombing raid. His body was burned, his arm lost, but his spirit remained — immortalized through his paintings.
Among his belongings, a diary was found. It read:
> "Soldiers do their duty even when they know they may not see the next sunrise.
I wasn't born to be one of them — so I used what I had to serve them.
My art is my uniform. My brush, my weapon."