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Until the day of his death he can never get the color of her hair right.

It’s not just red, but oranges and hints of yellow and brown. He can see the swirls of color in his mind, framing her face, blowing in the wind. Her eyes dance with laughter and some of the sadness he’d perceived. No matter how many tubes of paint he buys, no matter how much he mixes Vincent can never get the color of Amy’s hair right.

So instead he paints the sunflowers. He doesn’t include her in the canvas. Just her name with his.