KEVIN
The black ink brushed over the plain canvas, a symbol forming with each stroke that the painter, a small Japanese man in his fifties or maybe older, was creating.
What once was a blank page was no longer empty.
Except for Hana, the rest of our comrades were looking at me as if waiting for me to do something or say anything to catch the attention of the guy.
Behind him was a lone Japanese traditional house, the wind chimes ringing in the dead silence that surrounded our small crew.
Surrounding his place was an assortment of trees and bushes. No wonder that the air around here felt clean and safe to inhale.
I won't even wonder if at the back of his house, vegetables and plants that bear fruits were present.
The silence stretched on, the man seemingly unbothered or even cared about us. His concentration centered on what he was doing.
