Once upon a time, in an old and crumbling stone cottage near the sea, there lived an artist and his wife. Now, this artist loved the sight of the white lace edged waves as they pounded relentlessly against the sandy beach and he loved the slate grey clouds as they darkened the skies above. Every day, he would sit outside, ignoring the chill of the wind as it blew off the sea, and sketch what he saw, smudging his thick pencils across the paper to recreate the most moody of scenes. And every day he would return to his cottage dissatisfied with his work, casting the sheets aside near the log fire with muttered threats of burning them, swearing never to draw again. But his wife would gather up the pages and see the skill in her husband's pictures. And she would tell him that he only needed to add the passion from his heart to make them truly great. Her words would stir in him a determination to go out the next day, to try again. And because of this, the artist loved his wife most of all. 

            One cold morning in early Spring, as the wind was howling down the chimney scattering ashes onto the hearth, and the skies were the colour of the slate floor, as the artist made ready to leave the cottage, his sketch books and pencils tucked under his arm, he heard his wife call to him from her chair by the fire. and he turned to her, puzzled. And seeing the pallor of her face, he was greatly troubled. 

            "I am dying." she told him softly, her breaths shallow and weak. "Please do not go out and draw today, but sit with me here instead."

            But the artist was afraid of living his life alone. He loved his wife so dearly that he did not want to lose her. He reasoned with himself, if I go outside and continue my work today, then she will not die, because she will have to be here this evening to look at my work, just as she always is. And so he kissed his wife and promised her that he would do just one more day of drawing, and then sit with her tomorrow.

            But when he returned to his cottage that evening, his wife was dead, and in his grief, the artist took up all the pictures he had ever created and tossed them into the flames, watching as the heat curled up the edges of his papers and consumed them into ashes, swearing for the last time never to draw again.

            The next day, as the sun rose into the pale sky and sent its rays through the rain spattered windows of the cottage, the artist remained sitting beside the fire, watching the final orange embers weaken. He did not gather up his materials, and did not even glance outside, even though the shafts of sunlight created a myriad of diamonds across the gently lapping waves. 

            And so it was, that he remained sitting there, long after the ashes had turned cold, oblivious to the cotton white clouds that chased across the bright blue heavens, determined not to see the beauty of the world around him, and never touching the pencils that had stained his fingers for so many years.

            Then one warm morning, when the green budded stems of the rhododendron bushes were tapping gently at the window panes, the artist looked out through the glass and saw his wife. She was standing at the edge of their garden overlooking the bay and her long hair was dancing in the cool breeze. As he ran outside, she turned to him sadly, and he could see that she was just a spirit, her hazy form barely masking the wild flowers that grew beyond their fence.

            "Why do you no longer draw?" she asked him.

            "I do not know how." the artist replied. "Without you to encourage me, I have no heart to put pencil to paper. To me the world is grey and lifeless."

            "Do you not see beauty around you? Do you not see the sky and the sea?" 

            "I only see the landscape as I used to draw it. But now the sky is filled with the heavy dark clouds of my despair and the sea sends relentless steely waves of grief to pound against my broken heart. "

            "Then you must try to find hope within you, for what you draw on your paper, you will create in your life."

            The artist thought over her words and an idea began to form in his mind.

            "Do not leave me today." he pleaded, "Sit with me whilst I draw so that I may remember our love and have hope."

            And so the artist's wife sat upon a bench in their garden and gazed out over the tranquil ocean, speaking no more until the shadows lengthened, and she heard her husband close his box of pencils. 

            "Come and see my picture." the artist declared, "it is the greatest work I have ever done, for today I have truly added the passion that is in my heart." 

            Rising from her seat, she crossed the lawn eagerly to view his work. But when she saw it, she could not speak, for there on the page, instead of the wild landscape, was a perfect portrait of herself, sitting in their garden surrounded by the Spring flowers. 

            "I have drawn beauty. I have drawn the thing that is most beautiful to me," he told her, "and by doing so, I have enabled you to stay here with me forever, for did you not say that what I draw on my paper, I will create in my life?"

            "This is true," she replied with a sad smile, "You have created me as part of your landscape, and so every day, you will find me sitting here in our garden whilst you draw."

            The next morning, the artist rose eagerly with the sun and headed out into his garden, his heart filled with renewed hope. There, as she had promised, sat his wife, gazing once more across the seas. Although she spoke little, her presence gave his drawings a depth to match his love for her. Each day, he would hurry outside to be with her, and each evening, he carried into the cottage a pile pictures of which he was proud. Before long, he found his work sort after by many people. From far and wide they travelled, hearing of the amazing landscapes that seemed almost alive on the paper. And the artist worked willingly, but never did he show anyone the portrait he had made of his wife, for that he kept folded up in his pocket so that he could keep her close to his heart. 

            As the nights drew in with the approach of Autumn, he lit candles into the evening to lengthen the day, and lengthen the time he could spend with his beloved wife. And thus he continued for many years until age brought stiffness to his hands and cloudiness to his eyes so that he could no longer hold a pencil, nor see to draw. Yet still, he sat out all day in the garden, just to be with her, until one day, as the sun's final rays glinted across the ripples of the ocean, he closed his eyes, never to wake again.

            And at that moment, his wife crossed the garden to him, and as she placed a kiss upon his cold lips, his spirit rose up and stood beside her, his hands stretched out to take hers.

            "At last, we are together again." he smiled, "Let us walk our path to the next world hand in hand."

            But his wife simply shook her head. "Although I love you dearly, I cannot go with you, my love." she said sadly, "For when you drew me, you made me a part of this landscape, and here I must stay forever, just like the seas below and the skies above."

            And the artist realised that his love for his wife had been selfish, that throughout his life he had thought only of his own hopes and fears, caring more for the world he could draw on paper than the real one around him. And because of this, he realised he had created for himself a world without true love.