The sun’s rays crept through the trees and warmed his face as the biting Parisian winter found its way through the moth holes in his topcoat. He removed his monocle to wipe a tear.

Magnus had been to Pere-Lachaise Cemetery many times. He had visited the graves of statesmen, leaders, artists, and writers.

Most recently, he had wept over his friend Apollinaire, the poet and art dealer. And now, here he was, still standing by the graveside with flowers in hand reeling from the death of his closest companion. It seemed surreal that the alcohol and consumption had gotten the best of Amedeo.

All of Montparnasse and Montmartre had been at Modigliani’s funeral.

He began thinking of how he would pour his soul onto the canvas. Compose lines of heart-wrenching verse to commemorate the occasion.

Magnus gently laid the tulips by the grave; his hand gently tracing a few etched letters. He stood slowly, lit a cigarette, and turned.