He was a painter.
A damned good painter.
Too bad he didn’t know it.
He spent his life criticizing his work, finding fault with every detail.
Depression and anxiety plagued him.
His past haunted him like wisps of morning fog roiling around him and settling at his feet, some days rendering him immobile.
A thousand times he said he’d paint no more.
She took his paintings to galleries.
They sold. The critics raved.
He hated her interfering in his life.
Why would anyone pay for his art.
Rubbish! Utter drivel.
He had nothing to say.
Brother Ambrose softly hefted the bag of newly ground rye over his shoulder muttering yet another prayer.
Everyone was at Matins, so he was safe. This would make many loaves of bread for the orphan children in the village.
In the seven years he’d been at the monastery, he’d stolen countless bushels of food. If the abbot, discovered his theft he’d be punished for a year, he was sure; but, aye, it would be worth it to see the foundlings eat.
His only justification was that somewhere out there one of those foundling children might be his own.