Colors of Truth

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It was a simple question.

It took him a while to answer it.

“My Grams.” He spoke deep in thought as his brush moved across the canvas. I stayed silent allowing him to say more if he intended to. He took a deep breath, glancing at me once in a while.

“After my mother died. My Father entrusted me to my trainer. I trained during weekdays. And on weekends, I went to my grandmother’s home.” His voice was full of nostalgia.

“Your mother’s mom?” I asked, curiously. He nodded in response.

“She was so kind. Sometimes I felt like Mom hadn’t truly left me. During one of those weekends Grams said to me that I needed more hobbies than my Alpha training, school, and politics.” He stopped to pick up a new bottle of color and then resumed, as I listened reverently, “She took me to her art room. I had never felt more at home in a place before that. The colors, the patterns, everything called to me. I had to have a paintbrush in my hands or I would dip my fingers in the paint. She saw th