—Thursday, 3:47 PM—
Syra arrived thirteen minutes early, which meant she had exactly thirteen minutes to steady the flutter in her chest before facing whatever awaited her inside.
The charity center stood before her—a converted warehouse with ivy spilling like liquid emerald over its brick facade, sunlight catching in the delicate tracery of new windows. Too polished. Too intentional. She adjusted the strap of her bag, heavy with supplies she hadn't touched in years, and tried not to wonder how Lou Yan had known exactly which brushes to include, and her favorite sable brushes.
The door swung open before she could raise her hand.
A girl no older than twelve stood there, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in a look so familiar it stung. " a look so reminiscent of a certain ex-monk that Syra nearly took a step back. "You're late," the child announced.
Syra's lips parted. "I'm early"
"Grandmother says punctuality is the polite lie we tell ourselves about control," the girl interrupted, stepping aside with a sweep of her hand. "I'm Mei. You're the artist."
Not a question. Syra bit back a retort. The kid had Lou's cadence—that same unshakable certainty wrapped in velvet.
Inside, the space unfolded like a dream—high ceilings strung with paper lanterns, shafts of golden light painting the honeyed oak floors. Easels stood sentinel in neat rows, each bearing a pristine sketchpad. At the far end, an elegant woman with silver-streaked hair poured tea at a low table, her movements fluid despite the slight tremor in her hands. Not a single drop spilled.
Lou Yan's grandmother didn't look up as Syra approached. "You paint with storm clouds in your fingertips,"[Meaning:"You paint with anger,"] she said, pushing a porcelain cup across the table. The tea inside shimmered like dark silk.
Syra froze. The scent of jasmine and something deeper, more mysterious, curled between them. "I—"
"Good," the woman interrupted, her voice the whisper of pages turning in an ancient text. "Truth is rarely pretty. Children need to see that art isn't just pretty lies." She lifted her gaze, and Syra felt the breath leave her lungs. Those eyes—black as calligraphy ink, deep as a monk's silence—were Lou's exactly, blackandbottomless. "My grandson says you are stubborn"
From across the room, Mei snorted.
Syra tightened her grip on the satchel, the buttery leather warm beneath her fingers. "Your grandson communicates in contracts and buys buildings instead of having conversations."
The old woman's smile unfolded like a secret being shared. "Sit, stubborn girl. The children are waiting."
—4:12 PM—
Twenty pairs of eyes watched as Syra fumbled with the easel clamp, the morning light catching in the dust motes that swirled around her. She could feel Mei's critical gaze burning into her back.
Mei sighed loudly. "You're doing it wrong." She announced.
Syra's hands stilled on the clamp. The easel tilted precariously."I know how to—"
The clamp slipped, the easel collapsing with a clatter. A boy in the front row muffled a giggle behind his hands.
Syra took a breath and exhaled through her nose. This was fine. She'd survived worse. (The memory of her last gallery opening surfaced—the patron who'd called her work "charmingly unrefined." She'd served him over-steeped tea all evening. Some battles were best fought with subtlety. No regrets)
She straightened.Turning on her heel, Syra reached for a stick of charcoal. "Forget the easels," she said.
A collective blink.
Moving toward the nearest wall—a smooth, white expanse that begged for rebellion.
The children gasped as she pressed the charcoal to the surface, her arm sweeping in one fluid motion. The line appeared like magic—bold and unapologetic. "Art isn't about perfection," she said, stepping back to admire the stroke. "It's about the courage to make the first mark."
Silence. Then—
"That's vandalism," Mei said, though her eyes shone with something perilously close to admiration.
Syra's laugh was the chime of wind through bamboo. "It's possibility." She offered the charcoal to the nearest child. "Who's next?"
For a suspended moment, nothing. Then small hands reached out, one after another, until the wall bloomed to life—whorls of graphite like storm clouds, a dragon that might have been a dog, a flower that resembled an exploding star. Syra moved between them, her silk skirt whispering against her legs, adjusting a grip here, praising a stroke there.
A tug at her sleeve. The giggling boy held up his sketchpad, where a figure with wild curls stood triumphant atop a mountain of broken easels. "Is this you?"
Syra's breath caught. The drawing was crude, exuberant, alive. "Yes," she said softly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "That's exactly me."
---
—5:30 PM—
Lou Yan found her in the courtyard garden, where the last rays of sunlight gilded the camellia blossoms. Syra sat on a stone bench, her hands folded in her lap, watching a butterfly alight on a peony.
"You've caused a minor uprising," he said, coming to stand beside her. The scent of sandalwood and rain followed him.
Syra didn't turn. "Your grandmother is a force of nature."
"She approves of you."
"She threatened to replace my coffee with matcha."
Lou moved to sit beside her, the space between them charged yet careful. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted with fine dark hair, the muscles shifting as he rested his hands on his knees. Syra focused very determinedly on the butterfly.
"The parents sent messages," he continued. "Five complaints."
She winced.
"Four demands for refunds."
Her shoulders drooped.
"The fifth asked if you offer private lessons to adults."
Syra turned then, searching his face for mockery. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes—those fathomless dark eyes—glinted with something warm and alive.
"You're teasing me," she accused.
Lou reached into his sleeve and produced a lychee candy, the red wrapper catching the dying light like a tiny lantern. "Congratulations," he said, his voice low. "You were magnificent."
Their fingers brushed as she took the candy, the contact brief yet electric. Somewhere nearby, a child's laughter floated on the evening air. The butterfly took flight, its wings painted gold by the setting sun.
Syra turned the candy over in her palm. "I'm keeping the wall."
Lou exhaled—a sound that might have been a laugh, had she not known better. "I would expect nothing less."
—Later—
Unknown Number: Grandmother insists you join us for Sunday dinner.
Syra traced the characters on her phone screen, her fingers pausing over the words.
Syra: Is this compulsory?
A pause. Then—
Unknown Number: It is inevitable.
In the quiet of her studio, surrounded by half-finished sketches and the faint scent of sandalwood that still clung to her clothes, Syra smiled against her pillow.
The lychee wrapper on her nightstand shimmered in the moonlight—a small, scarlet promise.