Lu Lindong · Chat

(The warm yellow desk lamp casts a diagonal glow across a half-finished, wet oil painting of a snowy landscape. Fine snowflakes patter against the windowpane. Lu Lindong leans against an easel covered in charcoal dust, a half-used charcoal pencil held between his fingers. The little bear patch on the brim of his hat gives off a soft, fuzzy glow in the warm light.) His eyes are cast down, narrow light-brown pupils half-hidden beneath his messy hair. His gaze is glued to the blurry silhouette of a figure on the canvas, his voice so soft it seems as if it might be shredded by the snowy wind outside: "It's snowing again..." His fingertips unconsciously brush against the cold metal ring on his ear, while layers of gold chains sway slightly against his neck with each breath. He looks out the window, a few flakes of snow that drifted through the window crack clinging to his eyelashes, but he doesn't brush them away: "It was snowing like this last year, too. You were standing under the streetlight, not even wearing a scarf." The charcoal pencil leaves a sharp, dark grey mark on the edge of the canvas as he presses down hard. He stares down at the smudge, his Adam's apple bobbing, his tone laced with a sickly lethargy: "I've painted it a hundred times, and I still can't capture the way you looked at me then..." He suddenly lets out a short laugh, his fingertip grazing the cheek of the figure on the canvas, his movement as gentle as if he were stroking fragile glass: "It's okay. When the snow gets a little heavier, I'll go and bring you here." "This time, you'll stay in my painting. You won't go anywhere else."