Song Ke looked out the window, and all he could see was thick darkness. In the shadows, it felt as though a pair of eyes were watching him. A chill ran down his spine, and he hurriedly drew the bck curtain shut. At that moment, the sound of a dog's whimper echoed from outside.

  He was indeed very tired. He blew out the mp and y down on the old bed. Song Ke opened his eyes wide, but his gaze couldn't pierce the darkness. After lying ft, he let out a long breath. Over the years, after every long journey, he would do this—exhale deeply, releasing the helplessness and tension inside him. In that moment, a woman's face would appear before his eyes. His heart suddenly surged, and he felt an overwhelming urge to shout her name, but a lump of sticky mud seemed to block his throat. Sweat began to bead on his skin, seeping from his pores.

  A strange, fishy odor began to fill the cramped space, mingling with Song Ke's breath.

  The peculiar smell seemed to lull him into sleep.

  Faintly, Song Ke heard an old, hoarse voice drifting through the air. Startled, he opened his eyes. A figure stood at the bedside, surrounded by a glow like the st rays of the setting sun. The figure was an elderly man, his eyes sunken deep into his face, dressed in bck.

  Song Ke asked, “Who are you?”

  A fleeting look of sadness crossed the old man's face, creased like bark from an ancient pine. His voice, raspy and frail, drifted into Song Ke's ears: “I spent my life painting portraits for others, but when I died, no one painted one for me.”

  Song Ke jolted awake, but the darkness remained, heavy and thick around him. His body was drenched in cold sweat, icy and cmmy to the touch.

  Song Ke couldn't fall asleep.

  He groped around, lighting the oil mp. Upstairs, he was alone. The wind was rising outside, but the sound of the wind couldn't chase away Song Ke's loneliness. He y back down on the bed, leaving the oil mp burning. He noticed a spider's web on the beam, with a spider struggling in the middle of it. Suddenly, a thought crossed Song Ke's mind—was he like that spider, struggling in the web?

  At that moment, it seemed as though he heard a noise coming from downstairs.

  Then, the dog's whimpering echoed again from outside...

  Town Chief You Changshui felt uncertain about Song Ke. He didn't know how good Song Ke's painting skills were, despite spending a few silver dolrs to have him brought here from the county by Zhong Qi. According to Zhong Qi, the artist Song Ke was extraordinary—he could even bring the dead to life with his paintings. If it were true that Song Ke could make the dead come alive, that wouldn't necessarily be a good thing, because the whole point of bringing Song Ke to Tang Town was to paint portraits of the dead. But on the other hand, if Song Ke really had such a remarkable ability, it would be a great thing for the town. It would bring honor to you, Changshui, as the town chief. To test Song Ke's painting skills, You Changshui had come up with a pn.

  Song Ke's arrival had put the people of Tang Town at ease. They no longer had to worry about not having a painter for portraits when someone died. At the same time, they were also very curious about what kind of person this outsider was. As for the character of the former painter, Hu Wenjin, the people of Tang Town knew him well. They knew he was stingy, introverted, and silent, with a fondness for food but no interest in women...

  When the tall, pale, and thin Song Ke, wearing a gray cloth robe, opened the door of the painting studio, many people gathered around the shop in the town. Their expressions were varied, but they no longer looked as indifferent as when Song Ke had first arrived in Tang Town. The onlookers remained silent, and Song Ke, adjusting his gsses, looked at them with a dazed expression.

  At a street corner, the mangy dog with patches of missing fur stuck its tongue out and looked in Song Ke's direction.

  At this time, Zhong Qi appeared. He shouted loudly to the crowd, "Song Ke isn't a monkey performing tricks! What are you all gathered here for? Go on, go on! Don't disturb him."

  The crowd whispered among themselves and gradually dispersed in small groups.

  Song Ke smiled at Zhong Qi and said, "Captain Zhong, thank you!"

  Zhong Qi smiled back and replied, "Song Ke, don't mind them. People in the mountains haven't seen much of the world. When a stranger comes, they think it's a performance and always want to see the spectacle. By the way, Song Ke, did you sleep well st night?"

  Song Ke responded, "I slept very well, very well!"

  Zhong Qi said, "Our conditions here are limited, and there are shortcomings. Song Ke, please be understanding. If you encounter any difficulties, feel free to let us know."

  Song Ke invited Zhong Qi inside the studio.

  Zhong Qi sat down, his gaze scanning the portraits hanging on the walls.

  Song Ke stood at a distance, his eyes somewhat unfocused.

  Zhong Qi said, "Song Ke, why don't you sit down?"

  Song Ke didn't sit. "Captain Zhong, is there something you need?"

  Zhong Qi lit a cigarette and said, "Song Ke, back in the county, I was in a hurry and didn't get a chance to learn much about you. Now, Mayor You are a bit worried and want to see some of your work. Don't take it the wrong way; it's the mayor's request."

  Song Ke understood, "Captain Zhong, you stay seated. I'll sketch a portrait for you. Once it's done, you can take it to Mayor You."

  Zhong Qi hurriedly waved his hand, "No, no, don't draw me. I'm not a dead person. By the way, let me remind you, in Tang Town, never draw living people, or they'll come after you."

  Song Ke was puzzled, "Why can't I draw living people?"

  Zhong Qi's expression became serious as he said, "In Tang Town, only the dead get portraits. Living people don't have their portraits painted. If you do, their souls might fly away, and they'll become like the dead. Song Ke, I think you can just pick one of the portraits left by the old artist and make a copy so I can report back to Mayor You."

  Song Ke shook his head, his gsses gleaming with determination. "I never copy other people's work."

  Zhong Qi looked troubled. "Then who are you pnning to paint?"

  Song Ke asked, "May I ask, after the old artist died, was there no one who painted his posthumous portrait?"

  Zhong Qi nodded. "But you never saw him; how can you paint him?"

  Song Ke replied, "Just describe his appearance to me, and I can paint him."

  Zhong Qi, still somewhat doubtful, asked, "Really?"

  Song Ke nodded. Zhong Qi then described his impression of the te painter Hu Wenjin in extensive detail. As Zhong Qi spoke, an image of an old man formed in Song Ke's mind, one that closely resembled the elderly figure he had dreamed about the previous night. A cold breeze seemed to brush across his face. Zhong Qi, sensing a faint, unpleasant smell in the air, felt uncomfortable. He had noticed the strange smell as soon as he entered the painting studio. After finishing his story, he quickly left, instructing Song Ke to open all the windows and doors upstairs and downstairs to let in some fresh air.

  Song Ke watched Zhong Qi′s hurried departure, deep in thought.

  After lunch, Song Ke took the portrait of Hu Wenjin he had just completed to the town hall.