A lonely painter discovers the power of a paintbrush, changing a grieving family’s life forever.

1350

“WHERE IS IT?” the man screamed, rummaging through his wooden cupboard. Brushes, paints, and cloths flew across the room as he emptied drawer after drawer. “I swear it was here yesterday!” He hurled the last one across the room, wood splintering as it hit the floor.

He breathed heavily, chest rising and falling with ragged gasps. He stared into the abyss, retracing his steps, desperate to remember where he had left it.
“I went here first,” he muttered, heading towards the kitchen. His foot kicked at pots and pans as he crossed the counter.

He had searched here countless times already, yet the thing he looked for had a mind of its own. One moment it was there, the next, gone. That was why he was in this state. Over the years, he had learned that though unpredictable, the object followed a pattern.
“When was the last time I had it?” he hissed, his hands tangling in his hair and tugging at the strands. Dark circles framed his eyes, and shadows danced with the flickering candlelight. Fingers to his lips, he paced, spinning from one side of the room to the other. Without thought, he tossed another log onto the fire and stepped back.
“I found it under the sofa!” he exclaimed suddenly. “The sofa!” he shouted, racing towards the leather couch and dropping to his knees to peer beneath it. “No,” he cursed himself. “It’s never in the same spot twice.”

His hand curled into a fist, slapping his head as he sank against the sofa.
“One, two, three, four, five, six,” he counted with each slap, stopping when his ears rang.
“My notebook,” he whispered, patting his pockets until he found the brown leather volume. His fingers flew across its pages, tracing dozens of sketches: his farmhouse, nestled among rolling hills and pine trees. A particular drawing caught his eye, a form in the distance. A bear? Or a giant wolf? He shook his head and continued until he reached his list.

“In the oak tree, under the rug, in my jacket pocket, at the edge of my land, under the sofa…” he murmured, tracing the order in which he had discovered the object. “In the wall.” His finger lingered, then he sprang up and seized the axe leaning against the wall. Without hesitation, he hacked at the wood. His hands shook from the impact, but he continued relentlessly.

The humming grew louder. The man was close. He hacked until the sound ceased. Breathing hard, he lowered the weapon. Slowly, he opened his fingers, and the axe fell to the floor.

“There you are,” he said, reaching into the wall. The paintbrush inside resisted, always temperamental. He braced against the wooden floor and pulled it toward his easel.

“Almost,” he hissed, pressing the brush into a vial of paint. It vibrated violently, clattering against the glass and spilling green across the table. Then, as it touched the paint, it relaxed. He swore he heard the brush sigh, as if the world had exhaled.

He lifted the paint and touched the canvas, knowing he could not stop. Time wasted searching was over. He painted until the sunlight streaming through the windows faded, the birds quieted, and the painting was complete.

When he finally released the brush, it fell to the floor. The world paused momentarily before hitting the wood beneath his feet. He stared at the painting and wept. “Years,” he whispered, sliding backward onto his bed. “Years,” he cried louder, hands pressed to his face, shoulders shaking with the weight of memory. “And now it’s finally finished.”

He glanced at the brush. Only a smear of paint remained where it had rested. “It’s all I’ve ever desired,” he lay back, closing his eyes, hands tucked neatly beneath his head, turning to his side. “It’s all I’ve ever desired,” he echoed.
Years later, when no one remembered his name, the house stood silent on the hill. The wood rotted, the fire pit turned to ash, but the painting stayed.
Then, one morning, the sound of hooves returned to the valley.

“This will be perfect, Torstein,” Inge said as she jumped off the carriage. “All the other farms in the area were abandoned after the Black Death. No competition, and more land for us.”
“I agree,” Torstein said, frowning. Inge cupped his cheek. “All will be well,” she tried to reassure him, but Torstein only whistled, calling their three children: Olav, Eirik, and Sigrid. They had lost three other children to the Black Death. Torstein feared having too few hands for the gruelling work ahead; rebuilding a farm alone would demand more than their small family could give.

The farm, overlooking rolling taiga hills and a gentle stream, held Torstein’s attention only briefly. His mind was elsewhere, fixated on the constant climb and descent of the land, a reminder of the labour that awaited them. Ivy had overtaken the walls, and Inge tugged at the vines covering the front door. It creaked as she slowly opened it, and all five stepped inside.

The youngest, Sigrid, clung to her mother’s skirts, burying her face in the fabric. Inge shivered at the sight of the kitchen and living room. It looked like a bison herd had trampled through, with furniture overturned and pots and pans scattered everywhere.

“Are those—?” Inge’s hand traced the walls.
“Axe marks,” Torstein grunted. He ran a calloused thumb along the splintered wood and then tilted his head toward the crooked painting in the bedroom.

“Looks like there was a fire in that room,” Inge murmured, following his gaze.
Torstein’s eyes lingered on the painting longer than they should have, a flicker of unease crossing his face. Whatever he saw there, he kept to himself. After a moment, he shook his head.

“I’ll check out the land,” he said quietly.
With his eyes on the floor, he stepped outside. His shoulders were tight, as if he carried the weight of the whole valley on his back.

“All right, children,” Inge said, clapping her hands. “When your father returns, I want these rooms as shiny as a newborn kitten.” They were only ten, eight, and six years old, yet they were already diligent workers, springing into action.

Inge approached the blackened room. Her hand went to her neck as she surveyed the ruins: a worktable missing two legs, charred beyond recognition; the bed destroyed.

“Huh,” she murmured, stepping closer. “How strange.” Her hand lingered on a painting of the farmstead, the only object untouched by the fire. She could see the faint shadow of a man behind the window.

She stepped back, closing the door, and smiled. The children had restored all the furniture to its proper place.
Inside, Sigrid tended to the fireplace, carrying a bucket of charcoal outside. Olav polished pots and organised cupboards, while Eirik diligently swept the floor.
Inge returned with bags of oats from the cart. “Give that one to me, Olav,” she said as he finished the last pot.

“Is the fireplace ready for a fire?” she asked her youngest.
“Yes, Modir,” Sigrid replied, carrying wood from the cart. Within minutes, a fire roared to life. Inge placed barley porridge with milk into the pot and hung it above the hearth on the metal frame.
The children dashed outside, retrieving bowls and cutlery from the cart to set the table.

“Fadir is on his way back!” Olav called, and they sat in tense anticipation, whispering to each other.

Inge scooped porridge into the bowls just as the door banged open. Torstein entered silently and took a seat at the table. He began eating at once, finishing his bowl before leaning back.

“The land is in a good state,” he said.
“Good,” Inge replied, pouring mead into a cup and handing it to him before settling to finish her own bowl.

The children grabbed their bowls and went outside to wash them in the stream that ran past the house.

Torstein finished his drink, and Inge jumped up to refill it.
“So… we’ll be all right?” she whispered. Torstein nodded after taking a sip.
“Yes,” Torstein responded. He mumbled something Inge did not understand. Before she could ask, the children came running back inside, laughing, and slamming the door behind them.

Torstein sprang up and threw his empty cup at them. “Silence!” he shouted. The children froze. Olav stepped instinctively in front of his younger siblings.
“Sorry, Fadir,” he said quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Torstein sank back into his chair and stared into the fire. The children, understanding his mood, quietly returned outside. There was no point staying inside when their father was angry.

“Torstein,” Inge began softly, but he cut her off, springing to his feet.
“Don’t,” he snarled. Inge held her tongue.
“Which one is our room?” he asked.
“The one on the left,” she replied. “The other room needs repairs. The kids can sleep on the sofa.” She moved closer to him.

Her hand touched his shoulder, and she felt the tension beneath. “I miss them too,” she whispered. A flash of pain crossed his face, but he quickly turned away. Torstein believed men were not meant to show sadness; he did not realise he displayed it every day, in his anger and absence.

Inge, however, had learned long ago that grief made men silent, but silence made women strong. Just once, she wished he would let her in. Her heart broke anew when he shook her hand off and disappeared outside. The door closed softly behind him.

A tear slid down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away as her children returned inside, silently this time. She dabbed her wet hands on her apron and approached the open bedroom door. She could have sworn it had been closed.

She glanced at the painting of the man with an axe standing in front of the farmstead, deep wrinkles carved between his brows. She inhaled deeply, then leaned against the closed door, letting herself smile as her children approached. She crouched and pulled them all into a warm embrace, savouring the three she had been allowed to keep.

The first night was cold, and Inge was relieved when the sunlight streamed through the window. She looked through the window at her husband as she rinsed the bowls.
“Olav!” Torstein called from the garden. “Come help your father in the field!”
Olav slipped on his shoes and dashed outside. Torstein nodded to him, then walked towards the nearest field.
“We’ll need to plow the entire field,” he said.

Olav suppressed a sigh, staring at the vast stretch of land ahead. Without complaint, he grabbed the wooden plow and dragged it towards their horse, a beautiful brown animal. He had been in the family as long as he could remember. He sometimes felt guilty for the horse, knowing how much it disliked fieldwork.

Once the plow was attached, Olav mounted the horse and nudged it forward. He stroked the horse’s neck when his father was out of earshot.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll get you extra porridge once we finish.”
He straightened, nudged the horse again, and watched the plough quickly turn the dirt. Someone must have farmed this land recently, he thought, wondering what had become of them. He knew there was a high chance they had been victims of the Black Death.

Memories of that time surfaced. First, the baby, Gudrun, had died after only a day of fever. He could still hear his mother’s screams as she cradled the still child. She had sat in the corner for two days, motionless, until his father finally removed the baby. She begged, crawled after him, but he ignored her pleas.

He had noticed the change in his father then. The gentle, loving man who had once played with his children had turned cold and unfeeling. The world had claimed all the love inside him, leaving a survivor of the Black Death who had not truly survived.
Olav nudged the horse to the edge of the field, preparing for the next stretch.

Not long after Gudrun’s death, Magnus, the eldest sibling, showed symptoms. His parents had isolated his brother. Soon, a terrifying man appeared, wearing a beaked mask perfumed with sweet herbs. Only the eyes were visible through the glass lenses.

Olav could barely understand the scene.
Magnus had screamed and cried. Olav had thought this pain might lead to a cure, but it did not. A few mornings later, he watched his father carry his lifeless brother outside. The scene mirrored Gudrun’s death: his mother’s cries echoing, his father’s sternness unchanging.
From that day on, Olav became the eldest and had to shoulder the responsibility. When grief had pressed too heavily, he ran to the garden, climbed the big pine tree, and cried, hiding his tears from his parents.

“C’mon, boy,” he murmured to the horse as they reached the field’s end, slowly turning the plough.

A few days after bidding farewell to Magnus, a commotion in the house startled him. He wiped away his tears and took deep breaths, climbing down and rushing inside. His mother sat motionless in the corner as the doctor shook his head. As they carried his sister’s body, covered in white sheets, his world shattered. His mother’s silence gnawed at him. He yearned for her to scream, cry, or react, but she stayed still, sinking into herself like a sack of potatoes.

Then, a bittersweet news arrived: the number of cases had begun to decline, and a flicker of hope appeared on the horizon. However, his parents could not remain in the house where three of their children had passed away. They decided to gather their belongings and move. Olav did not blame them; he could only blame the Black Death.

Sometimes, an inexplicable anger welled within him when he looked at his father, now a mere shadow of who he had once been.
Olav cursed his father for forgetting that three of his children were still alive, while he had carried most of the responsibility for their care. He shook his head at the thought; it was unfair and bitter, yet he knew his parents had done all they could. Now, it was time to move on.

A sudden snap drew his attention. He cursed as he saw the plough’s wooden beam had broken, falling onto the field. He signalled the horse to stop and ran toward the wreckage.
His father rushed down. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Olav muttered, staring at the broken wood. “It just snapped.”
Torstein cursed, raising his hand. Olav flinched as he awaited the blow. His father exhaled and slowly lowered his hand. “Go get your siblings. We will finish it by hand.”

Olav met his father’s gaze. “I can do it,” he said firmly. “My siblings can help in the kitchen.”
Torstein’s eyes were stern. “I want this done before the sun dips below the horizon.” He pointed to the sky, where the sun burned high overhead.

“I can do it,” Olav repeated, returning to retrieve the hand plough. Death had already claimed so many of his siblings, and he had failed to protect them from the world’s cruelty. But high up in the pine tree, he had sworn to himself to safeguard the two who survived. He would do everything in his power to ensure they grew without the pain of blisters and exhaustion from hard labour.

And so, he worked. He ploughed the field steadily, the sweat running down his brow, until the sun sank towards the horizon. When the last furrow of dirt turned, he exhaled deeply and allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

As Olav walked back towards the house, a commotion rose from within. His heart lurched. He sprinted through the door and found Inge clutching Sigrid, who looked pale and trembled.

Inge wrapped her daughter in a blanket and held her close. “She followed you into the room,” Inge cried at Torstein.

Olav’s gaze flicked upward towards the burned room. His father stood there like a statue, staring intently at the painting.
Inge poured water between Sigrid’s lips, trying to soothe her coughing. Slowly, Sigrid opened her eyes, and relief washed over Inge. She sighed, feeling a sense of relief.

The house was thick with tension. The fire crackled softly until Torstein moved, striding towards the door. He mumbled words that Olav could not hear and slammed the door behind him, sending a shiver down the walls.

Olav flinched and ran to close the door to the burned room. He shut it tightly, his eyes squeezed shut. The man in the painting always unsettled him – arms crossed, face stern, as if silently judging his every move.

Inge appeared from the bedroom. “Where is your father?” she asked.
“He went outside,” Olav said, shrugging and sitting down.

He had not seen his mother this angry in a long time. She stormed out after Torstein, her footsteps sharp against the floorboards. Moments later, shouting erupted outside, her voice fierce and defiant. For the first time in years, Olav felt a sense of pride. His mother had found her voice again. “You’re supposed to keep them safe!” she shouted at Torstein.

He stood with his arms crossed, staring at the hills. “Sigrid should grow up,” he muttered. “She’s old enough to know not to disturb her father.”
“What do you mean?” Inge hissed.
“She shouldn’t have been there,” he continued. “It’s her own fault.”
Inge could not believe what she heard. She did not recognise the man in front of her. “It’s your fault,” she whispered. Torstein turned around, and his palm connected with her cheek. She gasped as she fell to the ground, her cheek stung.

Olav came running outside.
“Olav, go back inside,” she murmured.
Torstein stood nearby, chest heaving, his fists clenching and unclenching. The shadows beneath his eyes looked almost black. When he saw Olav, he turned away, covering his beard with one hand.

Olav rushed to his mother, helping her to her feet. “Let’s go inside,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on his father until they were safely through the door.

He guided her to the sofa, shut the bedroom doors, and placed another log on the fire. “He didn’t mean it,” she whispered.

Olav said nothing, only taking her trembling hand in his. “He didn’t mean it,” she repeated, her voice breaking.

Morning came quickly. Olav remained on the sofa, the fire long dead and the ashes cold, yet he barely felt the chill. His father had not returned.

Eirik burst out of the bedroom, laughing and full of energy. Olav saw Inge sitting upright in bed and managed a faint smile.
“Olav, let’s go play!” Eirik exclaimed, jumping on the sofa.

Olav nodded absently, taking his brother’s hand and stepping outside. Eirik ran through the fields, giggling, while Olav followed, his mind elsewhere. He would not tell his siblings what he had seen the day before. He would protect them in every way he could.

Inge watched them from the porch. Her cheek still throbbed, but her little girl was healthy again, and that was all that mattered. She exhaled and went back inside, closing the bedroom doors before sitting beside Sigrid on the sofa.
“Modir, can I go play?” Sigrid asked eagerly.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good!” Sigrid grinned.
“What happened in there?” Inge asked gently.
“He gave me a toy!”
“A toy?” Inge echoed. “What kind of toy?”
“A wooden horse,” Sigrid said, smiling. “Modir, can I go now?”
“Your Fadir gave you a toy?”
The little girl was already running towards the door. “No!” she yelled. “The kind man in the painting.”
“What—?” Inge jumped up.

Sigrid ran outside to join her brothers.
Torstein was coming in when Sigrid collided with him. She hit his leg and fell backward, her small body hitting the floorboards hard. Before he could stop himself, his palm struck, a sharp, sickening sound. Sigrid’s body hit the floor.

Inge screamed and rushed forward, “Enough! You can hit me, but you do not touch our children!”
Olav came running from the fields, having seen the blow from afar. He shoved his father back, “Go! Leave!”
Torstein stared at his hand, wide-eyed, as if he could not believe what he had done. He stumbled backward, turned, and walked away without a word.

Inge gathered the children and hurried inside. Olav bolted the door and leaned against it, the wood cold against his back.
He looked at them: Sigrid crying softly in her mother’s arms, Eirik’s wide, frightened eyes, and Inge’s hands trembling.
Then came a new sound, faint but unmistakable—a slow, deliberate scraping, like a nail dragging along the house’s outer wall.

The room fell silent.

“What’s happening to Fadir?” Eirik whimpered, clutching his mother.
Inge waited until the sound stopped. “Nothing to worry about, children,” she said quietly. “Quickly, into our room.” She nudged her children into the bedroom, “Olav, keep them safe. Stay here,” and closed the door.

She gripped the iron fire poker tightly, the cold metal biting into her palms.
Behind her, a door creaked. She did not need to turn to see which one.

Inge kept her gaze fixed on the window. The fading light revealed no sign of Torstein.
From the burned room came the unmistakable sound of an axe splitting wood. The sharp crack echoed through the house. Inge’s breath caught, but she refused to look for she knew what she would see.

The air felt heavier, the walls pressing closer around her. Still, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. He would not hurt her children. Not again.
She had been powerless once, watching helplessly as the Black Death took her other children. But never again.

“Inge,” Torstein pleaded from outside the door. “Please, I’m sorry.”
“No!” Inge screamed. “Go!”
“Inge…” his voice cracked. “I do not know what came over me. Please.”
“You’ve changed, Torstein!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “You are selfish. I lost them too! I lost my children!”
Her knees gave way, and she collapsed, sobbing into her hands.
“Please, Inge. I need to be inside. There is an animal,” Torstein said, desperation creeping into his voice. He threw his shoulder against the door, shaking it on its hinges. Inge jumped back, gripping the fire poker until her knuckles turned white.
Then Torstein screamed.

The sound of an axe splitting wood erupted from the burned room, louder now, deafening, echoing through every beam and wall. Inge clamped her hands over her ears, sinking to the floor.

Then, silence.

She slowly lowered her hands. The front door creaked open.
The fire poker slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud she did not hear. Her breath froze in her chest.
There, standing in the doorway, was Olav.
His small hand clutched an axe slick with blood, red drops pattering softly against the floorboards.

Inge’s gaze followed the trail of crimson until she saw the remains of Torstein sprawled on the ground. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“He won’t hurt us anymore,” Olav said. His voice was calm, too calm. It did not sound like his own. “The man was right. He needed to die.”

“The man?” Inge whispered, trembling. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Olav’s eyes drifted toward the burned room. Inge followed his gaze.

The man in the painting was smiling now. The axe that had once been in his painted hands was gone. Inge’s breath hitched as she looked back at the weapon her son held. She recognised it, but she could not bear to believe it.
“Olav…” she whispered.
He turned and began walking towards the burned room.
“Olav!” she screamed. The door slammed shut behind him. She lunged forward, pulling at the handle, but it would not budge.
“Modir?” Eirik’s small voice trembled behind her as he stepped closer.
Then, suddenly, the door gave way. Inge stumbled inside.

Olav was gone.

The painting had changed once more. A man stood on a ladder, leaning against the farmhouse wall, and handed something to a smaller figure on the roof.

Inge did not have time to scream before smoke filled the room, thick and choking. Her vision blurred as the world darkened around her, consumed by the fire.
Unconsciousness took her and her children, their stories, memories, and lives all swallowed by the fire.

When the smoke cleared, Olav smiled.
“They’re free now,” the man said softly beside him, passing him a roof tile.
“It’s all I’ve ever desired,” Olav murmured, turning away.

“It’s all I’ve ever desired,” he repeated until the words lost all meaning and became the only thing he had left.
Years later, when no one remembered his name, the house stood silent on the hill.

The wood rotted, the fire pit turned to ash, and only one painting hung untouched on the wall.