(Kim's Point of View)
I could imagine a lot of things but not this, not the sight before me, never in a million years did I think I would get to see Arthur break down in front of me. So, I did the first thing that came to my mind as I propelled in through the door of the little storage room of Arthur's portraits.
I scurried to his side where he was nestled on the floor, a brush clasped on his hand while a half painting of terrain lay on the canvas beside him.
"Arthur," I reached his side, shoving the wheelchair to the corner, huddled him into my arms, and held him close to my chest. I stroked his hair while he let out broke cries.
What had happened? Why was he breaking down? My thoughts galloped wild and far and I looked at the illustration and found nothing unique about it,
