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Vince got bored easily during college lectures.

The brown gryphon experienced restless leg syndrome throughout his art history class. He loved the subject, but he felt his professor was overly long-winded. The lizard also spoke slowly. He took notes on his laptop he needed to take in between her tangents. He occasionally dozed in his seat and lifted his beak slightly so the teacher couldn't see his closed eyes. When he realized taking a snooze wasn't a viable option, Vince sketched small doodles on a notepad he carried with him. The pencil drawings he did were rough-looking caracteres of his classmates. The only classmate he put in effort to draw more accurately was Sarah, a lioness he developed a crush on.

She was beautiful. She was a slender lioness with braided, dark brown hair and gorgeous hazel eyes underneath eyeglasses. She was determined and studious, but friendly and often smiled when she saw Vince. They never met each other. But Sarah exuded warmth and kindness. When she caught a glimpse of Vince, the gryphon nervously stiffened his beak. His feathers got rustled easily when he got fidgety. She would notice his ruffled weathers and wave to him. He didn't exactly know what to do after that. The ritual between them took place about twice a week, yet both of them were mildly apprehensive about talking to each other. As it turned out, the lioness was also a bit shy.

Class ended for the day. As Vince hurriedly packed his laptop, he accidentally knocked over his notepad. The notepad landed on the floor, right in front of his desk. Once he realized the notebook fell, Vince panicked. He looked on the desk, then by his seat, before his eyes finally made contact with the notepad. But by then, Sarah walked past his desk. She spotted the notebook, picked it up, and nonchalantly handed it to Vince.

"Here you go," Sarah said.

"Thanks so much!" Vince replied.

"By the way, that's a really nice sketch of me you did there," she said.

"Oh no, it's -- well, I'm sorry that I --"

Busted.

"Sorry about what?" Sarah said. She flashed a smile. "I liked it. You're an artist, aren't you?"

The jig was up. He sighed in surrender. "Not a very good one, I'm afraid," he said, chuckling nervously at his self-deprecation.

"Keep working at it. See you tomorrow!"

"See ya!"

Vince deeply inhaled, then exhaled. He was relieved. He was concerned about her thinking he was a creep. Normally, he would relish in the praise he received for his artistic skills. But he decided not to jinx anything but thinking too much about it. He quickly packed his things and left the classroom.

Vince jetted across the campus courtyard to a bicycle rack where his bike was parked and sufficiently locked. He buzzed down the road toward his dormitory. He always liked his rides. He could never get tired of the breeze streaming across his face and feathers. This was a time for him to let his mind drift into the wind and lose himself to the momentum of moving forward. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Sarah talking to a few of her friends at an intersection. She looked up at the exact moment he locked eyes onto her. She waved to him. He felt obligated to wave back. But by the time he decided to reciprocate the greeting, he noticed he was rapidly approaching the intersection. However, he was so preoccupied with waving back to Sarah, he couldn't immediately gauge how far into the intersection he was. His light was red. Vince accidentally sped through the intersection and nearly entered speeding cross-traffic. He frantically made a sharp turn with his bike and fell at the last second before he would've been hit by a car. A shocked Sarah covered her maw and raced toward him. Fortunately, Vince was wearing a helmet. Nevertheless, he hit the ground hard and fell unconscious almost immediately.

He woke up in a hospital room. His eyes were blurry. Head was foggy. Felt a little disoriented, but nothing serious. The lights inside his hospital room were bright and distracting. He tried to put a paw over his eyes to block the brightness, but noticed his arm felt heavy. He was more banged up than he initially realized.

A nurse stood over his bed. "Mr. Ross! Good afternoon," the gazelle said. "How are you feeling?"

"Not dead," Vince replied weakly.

"Hey, you know what? I'll take it. My name is Daisy. I'm your nurse."

"Oh... hey. So what's wrong with me?"

"You got a pretty nice concussion. Would've been worse without the helmet, obviously."

"That's for sure. So what's wrong with me?"

Daisy frowned. "That's not funny," she growled.

Vince cackled softly. "At least I tried."

"Do you have an emergency contact we can contact to let them know you're --"

Vince waved his paw dismissively. "No, that's okay. I think I can get up and walk." He tried sitting up in bed, but it proved challenging. He tried moving his legs, but they felt heavy.

"You were saying, funny bird?"

Vince let his paws collapse onto the blanket. "Yeah. Okay."

"Yeah, I thought so. You're obviously sore and a bit swollen. Doctor will see you shortly to assess the extent of your concussion. But I estimate you should be discharged in about an hour or so."

"What's wrong with me?"

The nurse jokingly pointed at the wisecracking Vince. "Watch it, Mr. Ross! If there was a plug to pull on you, I'd pull it."

"You're a nice lady," Vince quipped.

"Darn right I am. You stay out of trouble, alright? You might wind up back here if you don't."

"Knowing you're working here, I'll cover myself in bubble wrap for the rest of my days."

Daisy laughed as she walked away and headed out of the room.

"Hey, it's bright in here. Can you turn off the light? Thanks!"

The nurse flipped the light switch and left.

Once the lights were turned off, Vince was tempted to rest his eyes. But something peculiar happened. He looked at the pale-colored walls and observed a barely noticeable light shining against it. Light was coming from a window close by. The way the light gently gracing the wall surface was oddly satisfying and inspiring to Vince. Once the inspiration struck Vince, he looked around his bed for a patient call remote. He felt something small grazing against his waist. He reached down beside him and found the remote. He immediately called for a nurse. He exasperatedly drummed his paws, waiting for the nurse to arrive. When Daisy returned, she wasn't enthused to be called back in so soon.

"Yes, Mr. Ross?"

"Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil? I just want to draw something."

"You want to -- what? Oh, sure."

After receiving a pad of paper and a pencil, Vince started drawing. He looked around the room and started drawing everything he could observe from his limited point of view: the vital signs monitor, the portable supplemental oxygen machine, the folded black chairs stacked against the wall in front of him. His eyes darted from left to right, up and down. He moved his body to the side slightly at the expense of his comfort to observe the window blinds. He started sketching his hospital room and drew detailed shading to communicate volume of various objects inside. He started to draw shading with a hatching technique, which he never learned how to do. Although he was ecstatic to give his sketch some added dimension, Vince began obsessing with giving the room a more dramatic feel. He used the eraser to furiously produce lighter values and brightness.

An hour had passed. He nearly wore down his No. 2 pencil to a stump. The eraser was no longer effective. He sat in bed with the pad on his lap, feeling like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. He drew something that needed to be drawn, and it could only be drawn a certain way. He looked down at his sketch and smiled. By then, his swelling reduced enough for him to move around more comfortably. It didn't occur to him that any time passed at all since he was so immersed in his drawing.

Daisy returned to the room to check on Vince. "I'm sorry the doctor hasn't seen you yet," she said. He's been with a few other patients at the moment, but he gave me the go-ahead to run the concussion assessment and cognitive check. I hope you don't mind that I--"

She noted the pad on Vince's lap. She looked down and saw that he drew an extraordinarily detailed and vivid sketch of a hospital room with an empty bed and light shining down on it through partially opened curtains. There is a vase full of flowers on a table beside the bed. Daisy looked at the table and noticed there was no vase for him to reference, but the detail was so realistic and profound, it was hard for her to believe the vase was never there. On the bottom-right corner of the sketch were the words "Still Here."

A stunned Daisy slowly looked up to Vince.

"This sketch is called 'Still Here,'" Daisy said. "You know when someone at the hospital passes away, and they're moved out of the room. The bed is cleaned and made for the next patient to occupy it. It seems so weirdly transactional. But then you realize the light is shining brighter after they're gone, as if the light is shining on a presence that hasn't fully left this world. It's like they're not gone gone. They're still here. Or maybe they are the light shining down on us. They're still here. Despite the pain and sorrow from losing someone we love, there is a part of us that instinctively feels like they've never actually left -- that maybe everything will be okay. Eventually."

A tear began to well in Daisy's eye after hearing him explain the exquisitely elaborate sketch and the deep, emotional symbolism Vince attributed to it. "Wow," she said softly. "That's beautiful. I didn't expect to cry this early in my shift." She wiped her eye. "You're so weird."

Vince laughed. "I honestly don't know what came over me. I've never drawn anything like this before."

"You haven't? I have a hard time believing that."

"It's true, I swear."

Daisy picked up the notepad and stared intensely at the sketch. "It's not easy for us when a patient dies, let me tell you," she confessed. "But this gives me peace. I wish I could describe how I'm feeling from looking at this, but I can't. I honestly can't." Then she set the notepad back down on his lap. "If you don't mind me asking, how much do you want for that?"

"You want to buy it?" Vince asked startlingly.

Daily nodded. "I do," she softly replied. "Yes. I do."

"Just take it."

"No, I can't. I want to pay you."

"You can forgive me for the concussion joke from earlier."

Daisy sniffled and snickered. "You drive a hard bargain. Okay, I'll let it slide just this once."

Vince laughed. "Alright."

It was a heartfelt moment that Vince wanted to bottle and cherish forever. It was so organically and seamlessly conceived -- from the immense satisfaction he experienced from drawing to the emotional response he received from Daisy seeing it. He couldn't wait to draw again.

Shortly after he was discharged from the hospital the next day, Vince returned to his dorm room. His roommate, Eugene, walked over to him and gave him a hug. The sudden embrace made Vince wince uncomfortably. The wolf realized he hurt Vince.

"Oh, sorry," Eugene said. "I was so worried. I couldn't believe it when I heard."

"Don't feel too bad for me," Vince said. "It was my fault. I was being stupid."

"Yeah, of course you were. I'm glad you're okay."

Vince slowly started to get undressed. He was cursing under his breath as he reached down marginally to pull down his jeans. He stripped down to his boxers and slithered to his bed. "I am too. My parents are going to lose their damn minds over the hospital bill." He got under the covers and laid flat on his back.

Eugene sat down at his desk chair and swiveled around in a complete circle. He lifted his muzzle in the air and exhaled. "You're going to lay that at their feet, huh?" he asked Vince.

"What else could I do? I don't have the money to afford it."

"You have insurance, don't you?"

"No."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. My dumb ass didn't think I needed insurance. Well, no. I just never thought of applying for it."

"Holy shit, dude! Any idea how you're going to pay off your expenses?"

"Not a clue."

The two pondered quietly for a couple of minutes. Vince could barely move. He wanted to rest and close his eyes, but he couldn't sleep. Suddenly, he heard his smartphone buzz with a notification. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his smartphone -- which miraculously survived the accident with a few scratches and a partly cracked screen -- and noticed he received a text message from Daisy. He looked at the message, which was a photo Daisy took of his sketch. She found a nice frame to preserve the sketch. He smiled upon viewing the photo. Then an idea began to form as he stared more intensely at his sketch.

Vince abruptly rolled out of bed and got dressed.

"Where do you think you're going?" Eugene asked.

"Out. I need supplies."

Confused, Eugene shrugged. "What do you need? I'll get you whatever it is. You should just sit tight and rest. You had a long day."

"No, it's fine. It's okay," Vince said as he tried putting on his shoes. He winced a bit from bending over due to soreness throughout his body. "Wait, maybe not."

Eugene tossed Vince his car keys. "If you need supplies so badly, take my car."

Vince snatched them in mid-air. "Alright. Thanks, man!"

Vince arrived at an art supply store located just a half-mile away from campus. He used to walk and ride past it without a second thought. But now he was determined to go inside. Once he arrived, Vince stood in the doorway and observed his surroundings. He unleashed a wide grin before marching to the store's varied selection of stretched canvases. He bought as many as he could hold in one paw and dropped them off at the checkout counter. The cashier was intrigued by Vince. He watched the gryphon swerve around the corner into an aisle and reemerge with a large acrylic paint set, which came with a dozen brushes with varying tip thickness and a palette knife. He also set on the counter paint tray palettes. The cashier's eyes widened at the amount of items Vince wanted to purchase.

"Well, someone is inspired," the cashier joked.

Vince looked at the cashier and nodded. "Guilty as charged," he said.

"I love your enthusiasm!" The cashier began ringing up Vince's items. "It's nice to see a young man like yourself getting involved in art."

"It's crazy, you know? It's crazy because I never really took it all that seriously until yesterday. Now I see inspiration in everything and I want to capture it before the inspiration fades -- because inspiration is fleeting, at least to me."

"So you just woke up and decided to paint, huh?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"Don't see a problem with that. Will that be all for you today?"

Vince looked to his left and right and double-checked to make sure he had everything he needed. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the art store had a sliding glass back door that led to a garden patio. "Not every day do you come across an art store with a back patio," Vince remarked.

"Neat, isn't it? We hold art classes out there. Right now, it's raining a bit, but --"

Vince reached for a stretched canvas, the acrylics set and palette. "I'll buy that easel over there too," Vince said. He nodded over to an easel display next to the counter.

"Oh... sure."

Vince headed to the back patio with his supplies in paw. He opened the sliding glass door and gingerly walked down wooden stairs to a carefully cultivated courtyard. There was a beautiful assortment of flowers, trees and vines with a koi pond. A cobblestone path led to a small shade canopy that also acted as cover for the rain. The confused cashier followed him closely behind with the easel in paw.

"You sure you want to paint out here? Right now?" the cashier asked.

"Absolutely. Look at the rain. This is perfect!"

The canopy protected a space where artists gathered to paint. With the cashier's assistance, Vince assembled his station, unboxed his paint kit and got started. He locked onto an elegant rose that bravely withstood the downpour. Once he started painting, Vince imagined the rose and everything around it going through every possible elemental change. He imagined the courtyard going through a heavier, more torrential downpour. Then he imagined snow falling and the temperature dropping so that icicles formed around and underneath the rose petals. After the snow, he imagined a warm sun rising overhead, and the temperatures rising. Flowers wilted around the rose, but the rose remained unscathed as its beauty was simply untouchable.

He reached for several brushes, dabbed them effortlessly onto the palette, and applied them instinctively on the canvas like he painted all his life. The cashier looked on from an awning covering the back patio door. The lemur stood there with his arms crossed. His long, striped tail covered his work uniform and apron for warmth. He watched with large, beady orange eyes the gryphon painting with a stoical, determined gaze. He met charismatic, impulsive painters like Vince, but many of them were enthusiasts, not amateurs.

The cashier eventually returned inside the shop to tend to customers. About two hours later, Vince rushed up the wooden stairs to the back patio door with his finished canvas painting. He hurriedly walked inside, approached the checkout counter, and set his canvas down. He showcased a detailed acrylic painting of a red rose that was divided into four parts. On the upper-left corner was a rose covered with rainwater, with raindrops falling from the tips of its pedals. The upper-right corner featured the rose being coated in ice and patches of snow. The lower-left corner featured the rose weathering a hot sun, with edges of its pedals partly darkened. And finally, on the lower-right, the rose appeared perfect under optimal weather conditions. The painting featured impressionistic with an aesthetic of excess and redundancy. The extraordinary level of detail was striking.

Customers and other employees gathered around the canvas to marvel at its epic composition. Vince stood behind the growing crowd, smiling and excitedly tapping his foot. An older female chipmunk looked at the painting, turned around and asked Vince, "Did you paint this?"

Vince nodded enthusiastically. "I did," he said.

"This is marvelous."

When customers asked about his motivation for painting the rose, Vince described being captivated by the genuine color and beauty of flowers and roses, which had seemingly strong durability all year round. "I figure that if a rose could survive anything that's thrown its way, we can too. I find the rose to be symbolic of our commitment to survival, and how the desire to survive is intrinsically beautiful," he explained.

What started as a pleasant conversation between customers soon turned into a heated argument. Customers began casually outbidding each other over Vince's art. Vince stood at a safe distance, reveling in potentially profitable tension. He knew this was no fluke. The concussion he received somehow awakened his raw, innate talent to paint at a prodigy level. He never received formal training or took any sort of art classes. All he needed was the ability to see, in his mind, what he wanted to immortalize on canvas or paper. He could imagine his desired output with such incredible precision that it was almost uncanny. Because of that, Vince was starting to see the world around him differently. Everything was color and vibrant, regardless of the weather. He found inspiration in absolutely everything to the point of overstimulation; the only way he could possibly cope is to unleash his inspiration onto canvas.

Vince returned to his dorm later that evening eight-hundred dollars richer. The elderly chipmunk wrote him a check for the painting, which he cashed shortly after receiving it.

After Vince told him what happened, Eugene couldn't believe it. "That's... wow. I don't know what to say," Eugene said.

"I think there's something there," Vince said. "Did you catch my text?"

Eugene walked over to his desk to retrieve his smartphone. "Didn't check yet, but let me take a look." Eugene accessed Vince's text message. Eugene was surprised by what he saw. His jaw dropped. "You painted that? You, the laziest stoner gryphon roommate I've ever had?"

Vince lifted his head back and laughed. "Yeah! I spent a few hours on it."

"Do you know what this means, dude? I mean, sure, you can raise money for your hospital bills. But you could do exhibits at galleries, commissions, sell prints online -- I'm just spitballing. But if you produce work like this on a consistent basis, you're going to make so much bank. And you made how much today?"

"Eight-hundred. Like someone just dropped a wad of cash at your feet. Vince, I just did the math. Someone would have to work at least 50 hours at a minimum wage job to earn the money you got from painting something on canvas for a few hours. That's sick!"

"I know."

"I'll tell you what you need: a manager. I can help you."

And a plan was soon hatched.