"To paint a picture?" Jester was obviously a little incomprehensible about what De Rosso had to do.

In his opinion, if he was dying, he would spend all his time enjoying his last life. It must be admitted that this is also a way of liberation.

"Yes." But De Rosso only flatly affirmed his doubts, fiddling with the tin can containing the broth in his hand.

"That's what I was taught when I was a kid."

The young man lowered his eyes slightly, as if he was remembering something, and there was a faint smile on the corner of his mouth.

He was born in a garbage heap, but he grew up on canvas and paint.

He has seen the most dilapidated appearance of this world, and he has also seen the most beautiful scenery in this world.

So he knows how to choose between the two.

For De Roso, his memories are all about the beauty left by the old painters.

He's a lucky guy, and De Rosso has always felt that way.

Because the old painter spent his life creating a moving dream for him.

On the first day of De Roso's adoption by the old painter, he did not say a word, but closed his lips tightly and cautiously surveyed everything around him.

The old painter, perhaps seeing the uneasiness and fear in his heart, prepared warm wolf milk and jerky for him, while he himself stepped aside and painted a picture.

And so De Rosso's dream began.

In the following ten years, the old painter used that brush to paint countless scenes for De Rosso.

There are starry skies, snow, warm homes, and enthusiastic crowds.

They are like real pieces that allow De Rosso to be in them.

It seems that each painting is a corner of the world, and when all the paintings are combined, it is a complete world.

A world that is very different from reality, a beautiful, warm, and bright world.

It was bustling with people, the streets were always crowded with celebratory people, the sky was sunny, and the huts were lined with blue and red bricks. Flowers bloomed by the windows and corners, and beautiful girls danced in the square in beautiful dresses.

The musicians play all day long, and it seems that the festival will never end. Children walk the streets and receive candy from the adults.

The circus clown was selling balloons, and accidentally broke another one, so that he hung his head. The bearded drunks were holding hands and spinning around with their waists in their hands, drinking ale.

This is the dream that the old painter created especially for De Rosso, in that small studio, he is enough to forget all the pain in reality.

Almost every night, the old painter would tell De Rosso a story about the paintings and about the people in them.

The magician and the rabbit, the hunter and the dog, the sausages of the old Cheloft, the girls of the Romansted family. All the stories are so real that it seems that every detail can be strung together.

It's as if that world really exists, as if that world is right in front of you.

Until the day before the old painter died, he was still working for De Rosso.

He sat on a recliner and painted the last painting for De Rosso.

A self-portrait of him in which he sits in a modest hut and spends his old age.

There is a fire under the fireplace, and black tea and pastries are placed on the table. The walls on all four sides are made of red bricks, and the floors are covered with wooden floors. Red and purple flowers were planted on the windowsill, and a black cat wagging its tail lay on the bookcase.

He lives next door to the old Cheloft's house, so he can always share the sausages he makes.

The old painter said to De Roso: I will wait for you in that room.

When you come, I'll call a hunter and bring a dog and go hunting with you in the mountains, and if I'm not mistaken, that's what you wanted to do most when you were a kid.

When you come, I'll have the magician turn into a rabbit for you, with snow-white fur and reddish eyes.

When you come, I will take you to the city for the festivities, and if you are single, I will find the most beautiful girl and let her dance with you.

Remember, say more flattering things to her, dress up nicely, and keep your hair clean.

That way, you can make a good impression on the other person.

Don't forget, prepare a bouquet of flowers, your mother lives at 233 Rose Street, and when you are ready, I will take you to her.

Believe me, she must still love you, she will hug you, kiss you, she will cry with joy.

Then hold her tightly, wipe away her tears, and offer her flowers.

You are to say to her that you love her too, and you are to say it ten, a hundred, a thousand times, until she cries again.

You know, she's been missing you for too long.

You know, she definitely didn't mean to leave you.

······

The old painter died in the middle of the story, and De Rosso cried, but not all sad.

He believed that the old painter would live well in that world.

He also believed that he would eventually be reunited there.

De Rosso is really a lucky man, because he grew up in a dream and will die in a dream.

"Mr. De Rosso, I didn't say that if you want to paint a picture, you can actually do it anywhere. In the final stages of heart swelling, the onset of the disease is very painful, and treatment can at least make you better. ”

Kent hesitated, then spoke up.

He had a friend's wife who had died of heart swelling, so he knew what suffocating pain could become.

"Nope." But De Rosso shook his head and said in the affirmative.

"That painting has to be painted on that ice wall."

"Why?" Maika asked, puzzled.

"Because, I'm going to make a dream for all the people who can see this painting."

As De Rosso said, he wants to leave a treasure for the world.

A treasure that reminds people of the past and looks forward to the future.

One is enough for people to see all the wonderful treasures.

Even if it's not real, even if it's just a dream.

But De Rosso still wants to share in his luck.

He believes that one day the world will be a better place again, people will remember what the celebration looks like, people will sing and dance, and indulge in flowers and sunshine.

He believes that one day his paintings will be replaced by real beauty as the snow melts, no longer meaningful, and will be forgotten in the memory of the past.

At that time, he must have lived happily at No. 233 Rose Street.

At that time, all the sweet dreams will have no regrets.

······

For everyone who can see the painting.

Jester listened to De Rosso's speech, suddenly remembered the nearly 100 boxes of ore pigments that the other party had placed in the material compartment, twitched the corners of his mouth, and asked out loud.

"I mean, you don't want to paint a picture as high as an ice wall, do you?"

"That's right." De Rosso hooked the corners of his mouth and smiled.

"Believe me, it will shine brightest in the direction of the rising sun."