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... It was the madness.

In the quiet hours, Vincent painted not with hope, but with aching need.

He painted beds with tangled sheets, empty chairs, wilted irises. He painted fields that never ended. Stars that screamed.

"Color is how I breathe," he said once, pressing cobalt over canvas like a plea. "If I don’t let it out, it suffocates me."

Rex understood now.

This wasn’t a hobby or art school.

This was survival.

On ...

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The man put down the wine glass and quickly ran over, with his eyes full of love, he said, “Madam, I can’t eat without you.”

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