After that, they didn't speak much, they just walked, walked together, just like vagrants.
From one village to another. Not through grand streets or gardens — but through the backs of cities. Through weathered French towns with leaning roofs and walls patched with moss. From Arles to Auvers, past wilted vineyards, past cemeteries with forgotten names.
Vincent carried his easel and brushes strapped to his back like a soldier might carry his rifle. His satchel, tattered at the bottom, held half-used tubes of paint, threadbare brushes, glass jars, rags stained with years of pigment — stuffed into a satchel that was clearly once a postman's bag.
He rarely ate.
Some days, their meal was a crust of bread left behind by a baker. On others, they survived on nothing more than stale bread and cheap wine. He poured his heart into sketches—scenes of rural life, quiet landscapes, the curve of a sleeping horse—hoping to sell them for just enough to afford a warm meal.
