Romans & histoires Novel Paints

He pushed it open, half-expecting to find it stripped bare, a hollow mockery. It was exactly as he had left it. The chaotic, anguished painting from his breakdown still stood on the easel, a testament to his unraveling. But something was different. On the small table beside the easel, where he usually kept his brushes, sat a brand-new, unopened wooden box. He recognized the maker’s mark—it was an exorbitantly expensive set of professional oil paints, colors he had only ever dreamed of using. His breath caught. This was not just permission; it was a provision. An encouragement. It made no sense.

To channel the whirlwind inside. My small studio space was a comforting mess of canvases, brushes, and tubes of paint. I didn’t plan. I just moved. I stretched a fresh, large canvas onto the easel. I squeezed paints directly onto the palette, not just violet, but deep cobalt, fiery cadmium red, streaks of gold, earthy ochre. The colors of the storm painting. The colors of him. Of us.

“Maybe not today?” - And when? - Joyfully clapped her friend, almost bouncing on the spot. A street graffiti artist recently appeared in our city and his work was very different from all the drawings that I saw. There were no heaps of incomprehensible letters and bright colors in them, besides, there was an impression that they seemed to be painted not with spray paint, but with watercolors. All the colors in his drawings were matched to the perfect palette, creating an extraordinary and lively picture. Naturally, no one has seen him yet, since he painted in splendid isolation.

I stand in front of a fresh, raw linen canvas that stretches five feet across. In my right hand, I hold a wooden palette knife loaded with a mixture of raw umber, deep cobalt, and brilliant emerald green. My sleeves are pushed up past my elbows, and a smudged cotton apron is tied firmly around my waist. For the first time in months, I am not painting to fulfill a contract, nor am I painting to quiet a frantic mind. I am painting because the story inside me has finally run out of words. The canvas knife moves across the raw weave with a crisp, scraping rasp, laying down thick, deliberate strokes of dark color that anchor the bottom half of the space. Above it, I sweep a thin, translucent wash

I asked, pointing at the exact painting that I used to have in my room in Redwolf. " It was Nova who brought it here. She said it would calm you when you look at it." I heard Azalea say. I didn't look away from the painting, not even for one second. It looked exactly the same, only it was painted with brighter colors and this time, the woman's face looked like mine. It was subtle but still it looked like me a little bit. " Does Nova paint?" I asked no one in particular. " Yeah, she disguises as a crazy looking woman and goes to Hill pack to sell her paintings. Sometimes she makes a lot of money if someone rich buys her most impressive paintings. She wants to use the money to build Rogue town

Before her stood a masterpiece born from the depths of her soul, each brushstroke telling a story of resilience, hope, and the unwavering power of love. The painting was a breathtaking portrayal of a serene landscape, with rolling hills bathed in the soft light of dawn. The sky above was a canvas of pastel hues, blending seamlessly from shades of pink and orange to hints of lavender and gold. It was a scene of tranquil beauty, a sanctuary of peace amidst the chaos of the world.

Currently, they were on the thirtieth floor of the art firm— the floor that her creations rule. Four years working for Leona, and still, it was out of Ryan's comprehension that why the woman who possess the colours, play with it like trinkets, allure the world with the inks, why she lived in black and hide behind the tattoos. She never endured any other tint to kiss her skin rather than raven fabric. Her paintings differed cause reds, blacks and greys were the only colours she ever used. "Isn't everything is too brilliant?" she asked, a strange smile slithering on her lips as she eyes the portrait of a girl sleeping on thrones and besiege by the rosy petals.

There was no time, and more importantly, no value in engaging with noise that was meant to distract rather than understand. Instead, I stepped away from the bed and let my eyes move quickly across the room again, filtering through details with purpose now rather than observation. If cyanide had been administered orally—and in repeated low doses—then the source had to be something she ingested regularly, something routine enough to avoid suspicion. Not incense. Not anymore. Something closer. Something familiar. My gaze stopped. A wooden case near the window. It was the paints. I crossed the room in a few quick steps and opened it without hesitation. Inside were neatly arranged pigments, brush

A breath slips free of my lips. “Tessa.” She strides toward me. “Are you okay? Did the guards hurt you?” Her palms gently touch my skin and shoulders, checking for wounds. “No. I am good.” My lips answer. “How did you do it?” Jay questions. “The only thing I am good at is making chemicals. The blue paint is a strong chemical mixed with a red one. The water drains the red chemical first, then blue.” “We can clean them in hot water and the original red color will be back.”

“Mind showing me what you’re working on?” “I do mind,” she replied curtly, brushing past him to head downstairs. “Didn’t you say we were going to the hospital? Let’s go.” He turned to watch her walk off, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together where the pigment still lingered. He knew paints, enough to recognize what kind this was—natural mineral pigment. They were costly. The kind used in oil painting. And her reaction was too measured and evasive. A thought flickered across his mind. That oil painting—Locked…