Richter looked at the painting of himself, allowing Ania to resume packing. He looked so much older in the oils, even the eyes. She captured them well, he admired her skill. It was certainly more than he could ever do.
He wished he was half the man he saw in that painting, noble, bright, regal, perhaps even powerful. To think how much their world was going to change.
He turned to Ania and smiled. "We're going to be home at last," he said, speaking more confidently than he felt.