There is a painting in the main hall of a woman in a garden, face traced with the shadow of leaves. The woman sits underneath a tree, surrounded by flowers. She smiles, the woman. She smiles through sun and rain – unwavering. She has heard and seen, yet she smiles through it all. Her smile is warm, the woman – not an edge of frost even as winter comes and nips the air.
The scene is painted with overflowing love and devotion, he feels like he's not meant to peek at all. Her hair is mussed by wind, but the painter paints every hair out of place as if it were meant to be there. She is more than a muse, he concludes. More than a muse for the artist has drawn and painted her, chosen his colors for hours on end, as if she were the only person in the world who could hold such beauty and grace and love.
There is no inscription beside the painting but for a name and date, both of which are smudged and damaged. The artist's handwriting is angular and elegant – a contrast to the softness of the painting. Not a writer or artist by profession, he supposes, tilting his head to gaze it better. Perhaps a hobbyist… a military man, possibly?
"A naval man, actually," a voice behind him says. The voice is amused and sure, as if she had done this before.
He turns around to look at her – the woman who speaks. Her eyes smile, not unlike the woman in the painting. Her hair is done up, and she points to the painting beside the one he had been staring. There, he finds a portrait of a man. Angular lines, darkened tones – he commanded even through the frame. She looked like him, he thought. The woman speaking.
"That's him," she says, voice full of pride. "My father. He was a Captain of the Imperial Navy. Decorated by the emperor for his bravery… and the artist of the painting you stare at. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
She's smiling wider now, dimples in her cheeks.
"No one really knew he painted until he'd given mother a painting of her on their wedding day. He paints her with so much devotion and love, it used to disgust my brother, Kurt," she laughs lightly, like bells tinkling.
"You… you miss them?"
She nods. There are tears in her eyes – she tilts her head to look at the painting he now reads is called Maria.
"I—I come here once a week to remind myself of love and kindness. She," the woman gestures to the painting. "She taught me that the world is full of it, and not a day goes by that I do not think of it."
"She sounds lovely."
"Oh, she was," the woman laughs. "She was."
The pause was comfortable, and they both stand there, staring at the paintings on the wall. Of a man of bravery, and a woman of unceasing love. The woman beside him sighs. Her hands are clasped. He speaks abruptly.
"Would you like to have a cup of coffee? I'm studying history at the university and if I could talk to you about—"
"I would be delighted, young man."
The smile returns on her face. There is a glimmer in her eyes – of hope, of kindness, of love. She is full of it. He smiles in return, holding out his hand.
"Friedrich."
"You share the same name as my brother," she laughs again, tinkling and soft. "I am Liesl. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance."
"No, madam, the pleasure is all mine."