“Get up already!” he heard from across the small house.

The man opened his eyes and found his wife shaking his shoulder. A smile erupted across his face, remembering the accomplishment of the night before. He’d gone to bed late and had fallen asleep in his clothes and shoes, both covered in the trademark paint drops of an artist in the prime of their brilliance. It wasn’t just him; the entire house was a paint-stained studio. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and joined his wife and son in the kitchen. The boy’s cheeks were full of eggs and bread as he gave a muffled, barely discernible, “Morning, Father.”

He gave the boy’s hair a scrub, sat triumphantly at the table beside him, and broke off a large piece of bread. He did this a few more times, with little regard for breathing between bites. Satisfied with the fresh bread and himself, he leaned back in his chair.

“What has gotten into you?” his wife asked. “You have far more energy than someone who only slept a few hours should.”

“Behold!” he pointed to the smallish canvas sitting on the easel near the hearth. The fruit of his late night’s labour was dry and complete. He had hoped his son or wife would have noticed it, but his excitement was palpable and he couldn’t wait any longer.

The painting was a truly beautiful work. The kind that could hang in the Altar of Perfection with other masterpieces from across the realms. It was a painting of the sunny pond not far from their house, but on the horizon were ominous, dark clouds. Just looking at it transported the viewer to one of those few times in their life when they were in the middle of a thunderstorm and it was raining, but the sun was shining. It was both heartwarming and disturbing at the same time. Intentionally conflicting. There was no way to know if the storm was coming or going. A perplexing piece, forcing the viewer to examine their own outlook on the world.

“It’s wonderful, Father. I love how you captured the contrast of light and dark,” his son said dryly. He was only eight, but Thesdon had overheard his dad talking shop with merchants in nearby towns. After the age of about five, he started taking his son on small trips with him. The boy was whip-smart and had a good sense of humour. “There’s not enough sunshine, though,” he said with squinted eyes as he examined the painting.

“But that’s the whole point, my boy! The critics are getting tougher, Kahriah! A regular cleric of perfection here,” he boasted to his wife, winking at her. Kahriah was a tall woman, and stood nearly as tall as her husband. She had light-auburn hair tied in a thick braid with a strip of colourful canvas. She was impossibly good-hearted and sent a contented smile back at her husband. He and Kahriah had tried to have more children, but it wasn’t to be. They were disappointed, but found themselves grateful for Thesdon and their life together.

“Until your masterpieces start fetching sums matching their beauty, there are still chores to do around here, Ser Paint. Go around back and fetch some wood. Grelda said it’s going to start getting cold soon, and her bones don’t lie,” his wife commanded him, but she did it with an endearing and appreciated affection.

He made a sarcastic but loving face towards her and left the house before she had a chance to rebut. There was a scant pile of split logs behind the house that he began to stack on his arms. Grelda was outside, too, hanging linens to dry in the cool morning breeze.

“Morning, Grelda!” he yelled across the yard to the stout woman who’d been his neighbour for more than a decade. “You sure do a lot of laundry, I must say.”

“Oh, I know. Not sure what else to do, I suppose. Comes a time in everyone’s life when the days are all the same. Though, I’ve the cleanest sheets in the realm!” She found joy in the simple life and resumed her task and the banter simultaneously. “Oh, I forgot to tell you; Marell is engaged to be wed to a boy from Tunum. He’s a baron of the house Helm Stag Bare Hands. There will be a big ceremony just after the winter,” she boasted with pride and joy. Her husband had passed a few years ago after falling ill, and Marell was their only child. The house of Helm Stag Bare Hands was from Tunum, and they were good people. The painter was happy for Marell and for Grelda.

“Sounds like the gods are smiling on Kinney these days.” He paused and thought of Grelda alone in her house before offering, “Come by for supper tonight?”

“Sounds lovely. Sure,” she responded.

“Great!” he said before moving back towards his house with a meagre pile of logs. “I had better get some wood back inside before Kahriah sends the boy looking for me.”

He walked with a bounce in his step and joyfully re-entered the house.

Moments after walking through the door, his pile of wood crashed to the plank floor. His wife quickly looked over to see her husband’s face had flushed red and wore an expression she hadn’t seen before.

Thesdon was sitting in front of the easel he’d boasted of just minutes before. The boy had picked up a wide brush and was placing generous streaks of bright, golden-yellow paint opposite the dark, ominous clouds. He managed a few more strokes onto the freshly dried masterpiece before his father could get a sound out of his mouth.

“Demon’s hearts! What the...!” the painter screamed, searching for words. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

Startled and alarmed, Kahriah rushed over to see what her son was doing, confused by the unusual anger from her husband.

“I...just...thought I could add some sun...like you’ve been teaching me...” the boy blubbered between laboured breaths. His cheeks were already glistening from his tears. His father had never raised a hand before, but for the first time in his life, Thesdon flinched and raised his arms in defence.

“This was my masterpiece! Do you know how many a painter has in a lifetime? One! If you’re lucky! There’s a blank canvas right there! Why didn’t you paint that?!”

He kicked a bag out of the way and pointed to a fresh canvas tucked between two cabinets. The painter had a habit of stretching canvases and having them at the ready all over the house should inspiration strike. He paced as the veins in his temples pulsated. He saw the glass jar of yellow paint on the table and hurled it against the far wall. It shattered and left a giant splatter, as if someone had gored sunshine itself. His wife shrieked in fear, and Thesdon bolted across the room and out the front door. Kahriah ran to the door just in time to see her son disappear into the woods up the road from their house. She walked back inside, her surprise and fear replaced with an anger of her own.

“What is wrong with you!? He’s eight years old,” she scolded. “He just wanted to help. He was trying to show you he’d been paying attention to the lessons you’ve given him.”

“This was the best thing I’ve ever--!” he started to yell in response, but his wife slapped him before he could finish.

“It’s just a painting. Take a walk to clear your mind and then go find your son.” She turned her back to him and went back to preparing herbs. The father was still in shock, both from the fact that she’d struck him, and the fact it had actually knocked some sense into him. He didn’t know where the rage had come from, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. Whatever he had become in that moment, he certainly didn’t like it; the vile energy rushing through his veins had scared him. Finally collected, he stood and left to find his son.

Grelda called out to him from her garden.

“Everything all right, Paint? I heard a bit of screaming...”

“Yes, sorry about that. Young boys...” he explained without breaking his stride. Figuring Thesdon might head to the pond from the painting, he pressed on and entered the woods. It wasn’t far from their house, and he and the boy had spent many days there. In the summer, he would string a line for his son and have him fish while he painted alongside. It was a special place for them. A thing he wished he’d remembered before reacting so intensely to the unwanted addition to his painting.

The pond’s surface was glasslike, and the birds perched around the shore had not been recently disturbed by anyone. No one had been there. He looked around and checked behind some of the twisted elms his son liked to climb and hide in. No sign of him. A slight tinge of fear entered his gut, faint as it was.

The boy is only eight. He cannot have gone far. He probably just wandered down the trail a bit, thinking about how he might make it up to me.

The painter started down the trail, calling his son’s name. With each passing call, his panic increased. He increased his pace to a jog. When he was about a quarter-mile from the pond, he sprinted back and started the same procedure down the path on the other side of the pond. Sweat poured from his brow and chest. His head swung from side to side, trying to glimpse any visual clue. A footprint, a bread crust, a paintbrush...anything that might lead to the boy’s location.

“I’m sorry, Thes!” he yelled. “It’s just a painting. I like it much better with the sunshine you painted!” he pleaded. “Come on out. Let’s go home and finish it together!” The invitations went unanswered.

The faint unease in his gut turned into full-on terror when he saw it. On the trail ahead, almost on display, was a shoe.

He raced toward it and picked it up. Thesdon’s. It was marked with the same paint drops as his own, including fresh yellow ones. He instinctively circled the location for more clues.

There’s no blood, so it’s probably not an animal. Did someone take him? Or maybe he fell somewhere... But there’s nowhere to fall, no cliffs. Maybe he drowned? Where is he?

His thoughts were as erratic as his breathing.

I shouldn’t have screamed at him.

Doesn’t matter now. Get help.

“More eyes. Need more eyes.” His thoughts became audible as he spoke himself into clarity. He bolted back to get Kahriah and anyone else within earshot of their house.

He burst through the door and told his wife he hadn’t found their son, but had found his shoe. She immediately joined him, her anger replaced with the same fear as her husband. More time passed with no sign of the boy. It wasn’t long before word spread, and almost the entire town turned up to help. Most of them knew the boy, and everyone who did, quite liked him. He was polite and quick-witted, the kind of child grown men and women enjoyed talking to because he seemed intelligent beyond his age. The townsfolk formed a line and combed the forest in a formulaic way. At dusk, they lit torches and the intensity of the search increased.

As the morning sun broke over the horizon, the townsfolk started to come and go in shifts. They were tired, but still moved with a sense of duty to help the couple find their son. This routine continued for another two nights and days. Weary townsfolk were relieved with fresh ones, but as the likelihood of success waned, so, too, did the number of searchers.

The town had put everything they had into the search, but after six days, no one gave a boy of just eight years much chance of having survived. Grelda’s bones had been right, and there had been a chilling frost the last three nights. The search went on, covering more ground than any eight-year-old boy could have covered on his own, but it ultimately produced nothing more than the single shoe.

As days turned into weeks, the painter and his wife were the only ones left searching. The people of Kinney watched them enter the forest every morning with pity. Even more when they returned at dusk, haggard and exhausted. No one talked to them much because they didn’t know what to say. It seemed out of place to talk about the mundane, and too recent to talk about the boy. Their only interaction with the couple was to leave food on their doorstep most afternoons. They did talk amongst themselves, though, coming up with all sorts of wild theories about the boy’s disappearance.

“Demons appeared outta nowhere, grabbed him, and disappeared just as fast,” one said as an explanation for the lack of tracks and clues.

“No, it was a youngling dragon. Mistook him for a sheep and snapped him up in his talons. Boy was probably bent over tying his shoe,” another said.

Other theories included bandits, a bear, a werewolf, dark sorcerers, and spectres. There were all manner of suspicions, but none of them provided any useful insights into where the boy might be. Eventually, the snows came and quieted the land and the theories alike. The footprints of the sullen couple were the only signs of hope remaining in Kinney.