Prologue
In the town of Arles in southern France a raggedy redheaded man sat at his easel with brush in hand as he stared out into the distance. His china blue eyes seemed to be glazed over as he just sat and looked, picturing only what he could picture, seeing what only he could see.
The dishevelled man finally moved, making a sweeping movement with his hand across the canvas. The light he thought to himself as he repeatedly glanced up from his work at the landscape before him. The movement, the shadow, the way it falls. Oh to capture it in a frame, I must indeed be as mad as they say he thought as he chuckled to himself.
Roughly halfway through the painting the man quickly looked up once again. Upon bringing his gaze back down to the canvas he realised what he had seen. He quickly stood up.
"Dear Lord," he whispered to himself. "How?"
Standing there, in the very spot he had only looked at seconds previously, was a man in a long trench coat, overshadowed by a big blue box. The artist watched as the man walked steadily towards him. He did not run or hide. He felt as though the stranger had come in peace, so he watched as he got closer until he was eventually stood by his side.
"Vincent? Vincent van Gogh?" said the stranger.
"Yes that's me," he replied. "What may I do for you?"
"Well, that's the thing isn't it? First of all could you tell me what year it is?"
"Well it's 1891 of course." Replied van Gogh.
"Of course. How silly of me. I'm The Doctor by the way," said the suited man, holding out a hand. "Vincent, we've got some work to do."