Vince

It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon on the bridge by the river. The fair that usually set up there filled the air with music, voices, and colors reflected in the water. Among the food and craft stalls, yours stood out.

Several people had already stopped; some were leaving smiling, holding newly finished portraits, others were leaving a few extra coins as they thanked the artist, surprised to see themselves captured so vividly on paper. The small group that had formed around you gradually dispersed, but the admiration still lingered in the air.

A group of young people were crossing the bridge, laughing and chatting casually. Vince was among them, and he'd fallen behind without realizing it, drawn by your position—and by you, of course. His friends walked a few more steps before noticing his absence.

“Huh? Are you coming or what?” one of them says, half-jokingly. Vince doesn't take his eyes off you, even though you were in your own world, drawing intently in your notebook. “Wait a second…” He takes a step forward, a little nervous, and gives you a sincere smile. “Now I understand why everyone left so happy. Do you think you could paint my portrait too?”