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Song You carefully re-hung the two paintings on the wall, then stepped back a few paces to examine them.
With winter settling into Changjing, good weather had become a luxury. Even with the windows open, the sunlight reaching the second floor was scarce, casting a dim, grayish light. The temperature dropped day by day, and the room—clean and minimalist as it was—sometimes felt a bit too plain, almost cold in its emptiness.
But with these two paintings, the atmosphere immediately changed.
One was an exquisite landscape portrait, adding depth and aesthetic richness to the room. The other, depicting the Daoist and his cat from behind, was not as technically refined, yet it brought a noticeable warmth to the space.
“If fate allows us to meet Sir Dou again, we must ask him to paint us another one.”
Nodding in satisfaction, Song You turned his gaze to the back of the room.
At the desk where he usually worked, two figures sat side by side—one tall, one short—both facing sideways to him.
On the table were two small piles of rice.
Each of them held a willow twig. One furrowed their brows, waving the twig over the rice pile as if commanding it to move, then hesitating and adjusting their technique.
The other sat upright, their expression severe, gripping the twig with absolute focus,...
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