The hands of the old painter trembled as he dipped his brush into a jar of cloudy water. Outside his small hut, sparrows hopped in the dust, pecking for crumbs. He watched them through the crooked window, wishing for their freedom, the way they could rise in sudden flight, while he remained exiled from the town beyond the river.
Every morning he walked down the path where the stream ran thin, its babbling never ceasing, like a child telling stories no one could quite understand. Once, he had tried to capture the sound in paint, but the canvas only swallowed silence.
One day, as he bent by the bank, a snake slithered past, smooth and dark, its movements like flowing ink. He flinched, but the creature vanished into reeds, leaving only ripples where it had disturbed the stream.
He returned to his easel and listened to the voices that carried from the distant square. The mayor was giving a speech, his words piped through brass horns so even those far away could hear. The painter closed his eyes. Once, long ago, he had stood on that platform too, before the law stripped him of his voice, before he was cast out.
A dry bark of laughter escaped him as he recalled it: how he had slipped a phrase into the mayor’s own address, a secret slot where truth could hide, unnoticed by the pomp of ceremony. It had been a kind of rebellion, sharp as a rap on a table, soft as a bird’s wing.
Now, all he had were memories and paint. He dipped the brush again, and with a soft stroke began a new canvas. This time, he painted the sparrows in flight—wild, untamed, forever beyond reach.
And for a moment, he was not alone.
Therapy Bits 
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