Zaber continued on his way back to the inn after leaving the store. Packages in his hand, his walk calm, but his inner world was not peaceful. With each step, he observed the city, as if looking not at people's faces but at their habits.
After walking a bit, his eyes fell on a store selling paints. The pictures hanging behind the window, the colors of the paints stood out from the gray street scene.
Zaber stopped.
He looked at his hair.
"This color draws attention," he thought.
He entered the store.
Inside, the artist greeted Zaber. He was drawing a picture near the window—the sunlight falling on the paper, enlivening the paints. Sensing Zaber entering, the artist quickly stood up and hurried toward him.
"Hello, sir. What kind of picture do you want drawn or purchased?"
Zaber looked directly at him. His gaze cold, but direct.
"I need paint. Do you have any?"
The artist thought for a moment. This question was not like those of ordinary customers.
