Gekken

Johan slips his sketch‑box over his shoulder and steps out of the Hôtel‑Central into a quiet courtyard that feels more like a cloister than a hotel lobby. The breakfast room, draped in Moorish arches and green‑painted columns, glitters with polished silver and the soft clink of china, while a copper tray of intricate arabesques dominates the far corner. As he settles at a lone table, the winter light filters through a canvas‑like canopy, casting gentle shadows over the empty chairs and the modest green plants that stand in for flowers.

A young messenger girl, Sarah, delivers a handwritten note from a friend back in the north, its pages filled with vivid recollections of snow‑covered fields, frozen ponds, and the warmth of shared laughter. The letter stirs Johan’s thoughts about his own journey: two years as a government‑funded pensioner, endless sketches, and the looming “Prix de Rome” competition that promises to test his discipline and imagination. In this tranquil moment he begins to draft a reply, aware that his next steps will shape the artist he hopes to become.