Nafis reads yet another motivational Instagram quote. The house has an odd sense of closure today. Or rather, a deceptively close-to-closure feel to it.

It’s been years since Nafis dropped out of art school. You could look at it in two ways. One is that it was destined to happen, or the less likely but optimistic view that the art school was, in fact, taking away Nafis’ innate understanding of painting, making him a structured robot who could now only paint boundaries and techniques but not art. Lia, who Nafis was lucky to have wooed and married before his exploits in art school, strongly held the second view.

It’s a fine sunny day, made finer by Lia’s vacation trip. “It liberates me to say this, but I’m finally done. No more paintings. Maybe one more, though, this is the last palette I have,” a bittersweet Nafis tells his wife.

“I wish you would come along. Maybe the mountains would bring back the painter I married. Have you ever thought how peaceful it might just be up there?” Lia replies. “Peace up there? As in up the mountains or… up there in the heavens?” he teases. She simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

She walks away and starts preparing her bags, while Nafis returns to the coffee he was brewing. A few minutes later, they have coffee together at the table. “The sun comes through well through that window, no?” he says while almost blinding himself staring at the light directly. “I’ll probably start working on the painting this evening. I think a portrait of that lawn across the window would be a fitting last piece.”

“Or maybe a portrait of us together, but sure, the lawn would be quite symbolic too for how things have gone,” says Lia, and a loud sip follows from the other side of the table as Nafis figures that some thoughts are better left in the mind. “Fine, a portrait of you it is. I’ll surprise you once you’re back,” he tells himself in his head.

A few hours later, Nafis finds himself alone in the house and in front of the canvas. He brings out his phone and swipes through his gallery. The picture he clicked on Falgun in a yellow dress? Or the black and orange from New Year’s? Eventually, he settles on the pastel pink picture from last winter. Afraid of turning this cute pink cardigan into an almost cutesy, annoying sweater, he decides on painting the picture as it is instead of tinkering with it. He mixes his colours.

Before he can tell, he sees a blaze of fire just behind him. Shocked, he rushes towards the fire and sees a white cat jumping away from it, out of his house. The fire spreads quickly across the kitchen, and eventually into the living room. With no options left, Nafis shouts but to no avail. He runs towards his canvas, then towards the door. But he never reaches it. He trips over, hitting his head on the side of the wooden furniture and losing consciousness.

He wakes up in a jungle. Or maybe a hill. What do we even know? His clothes are burnt, and a pungent smell of moss hits his nose. He gets up and walks towards the bits of light coming through the bushes. His canvas seems pretty untouched. He remembers getting hit on the head during the fire, but cannot recall who saved the canvas.

A five-minute walk ends in the middle of nowhere, as Nafis sees a hill ahead of him, and no people anywhere. What he does see are small drone sky shows happening on the other side of the city. Left with no other choices, he carries his canvas towards the top of the hill.

Near the halfway mark, Nafis hears a man calling for him. He stands there, hoping the man comes up to him. “Is everything okay with you? Your clothes are ripped,” asks the man. Nafis, almost teary, tells him the entire story. “Oh, so you’re a painter? That’s rare in today’s time,” the man says while offering Nafis water. “No, they aren’t? I see one in every corner of the city,” replies a visibly confused Nafis.

“I mean… they were a common thing back in the day, apparently, but I’ve read that most painters went out of business around the 2050s,” the man says, giving Nafis a surprised look. “2050s? Do you mean 1950s? I thought this was 2026!”

Amused, the man asks, “Have you time-travelled or something? 2026 was 145 years ago.”

“I don’t know, my house caught on fire and I think I died, but this isn’t what I expected. My wife’s gonna be home tomorrow. I need to go back already. The house is a mess. I really am a painter. Please take me back,” Nafis cries out quite desperately.

“I can’t believe this! Can you paint me something? A human painting pays a fortune in today’s time. My eyes are tired of seeing perfectly made AI paintings. I want to experience the vintage expressionist craft of a true craftsman, that too live!”

“Will you help me go back if I paint something now? I do have a canvas with me,” Nafis asks.

“That works, but what was your name again?” The men introduce themselves for the first time. The man introduces himself as Shayan. “Alright then, paint me something,” says Shayan. “These are the last colours I have, and I really wanted to draw a portrait of me and my wife,” says Nafis while bringing out his palette. “Uh, how about some mountain terrain? I don’t think I really care about portraits,” replies the man. Visibly sighing, Nafis agrees.

Shayan sits under a tree looking at the drone show in the distance. It’s been almost an hour. “How long does it take?” he asks loudly. “Just a few last brushes.” Soon enough, Nafis brings the painting to Shayan. The scenic beauty is beyond words. The white mountains in the distance scream for attention, while the pink cherry blossoms in front steal it. The nuances of touch around the grass, and in particular every single bush of cherry blossoms, almost take one directly to the mountains. It’s as if Shayan is taken back to a time he never knew existed, making him feel a sudden burst of what it’s like to be human, a feeling lost in the modern age of AI. Nafis wishes the pink had painted his wife, but the cherry blossoms might just take him home.

“It really is beautiful. I’m out of words,” says Shayan. “It’s even prettier when the sun pans on it. Look at it from this side.” Nafis moves towards Shayan as he calls him to the sunnier side of the hill. “You’re right, the sun amplifies the colours a bit. Can you send me home now?” asks Nafis.

“Oh, about that.” Shayan takes the painting from Nafis and walks back a few steps. The silence creeps Nafis out, who is about to shout, “What’s going on?” In a moment of madness, he sees Shayan running towards him. Shayan kicks him off the hill and looks down at a falling Nafis throwing his arms around in despair. Shayan turns around and walks home admiring the mountains.