The funeral was a madhouse. People who had never known him but admired his work came to pay their respects as he was laid to rest next to his wife. His parents attended, but, for the most part, they had allowed me to do what I wanted. They were clueless about the tragedy in his life since they hadn't been around. They'd always thought he would just rebound from the loss of Sylvie, never understanding why he couldn't simply move on.
That wasn't Bastian, though.
He loved faithfully, eternally.
He had few close to him, but those who were, he treasured.
Once the police had the house cleaned, I was allowed back in. His parents didn't fight me on anything I wanted. I took every canvas he had ever touched, every brush, pallet, tube of paint. The police took the pieces of The Seraphim as e
