He sits and paints.
I look around the room. There are hundreds of paintings. They all show the same bridge.
Sometimes in sunshine, sometimes in rain, sometimes covered in snow. Sometimes the water underneath runs high, other times the level is low. In some the colours are bright green and blue, others are grey and dull.
Outside the cottage window the bridge can be seen. Today it is bathed in sunlight, the water a clear copper, the wild grass and flowers swaying in a gentle breeze.
Why does he paint the same crossing over and over again? Local legend says that before the bridge was built he lived happily with his true love, cut off from the rest of the world.
Then the bridge brought the outside world onto his doorstep, including the man who stole his love away from him.
And so now he sits and paints the bridge.
Perhaps he prays that one day she will return to him by that same crossing.