The sky in Paris seemed lower than the sky in Osaka. Under that low sky, I walked the same streets every day, streets like the ones Utrillo painted.

The road of painting was longer than I'd thought, and fewer people were waiting at the end of it than I'd thought. If I kept the brush in my hand anyway, it wasn't really pride. I just didn't know any other way.

I met him outside an art supply shop. He read the names of the paints aloud in French, so much more carefully than we ever say them in Japanese. Something that small, and it made me laugh a little.