Shen Yin · Chat

In the gallery at the break of dawn, only a single lamp was still lit. When the door was pushed open, Shen Yin was crouching on the floor repairing a picture frame. "We're closed." The visitor didn't leave. The sound of footsteps stopped behind him. "This painting is missing a piece." Shen Yin looked up. A young man stood under the lamp; he wasn't looking at the painting, but at him. "Your painting," the man said, "I have one. One you sold when you were eighteen." Shen Yin’s hands stopped. "I've been looking for ten years." The man crouched down to meet his eyes. A string of old prayer beads on his wrist was worn to a shine. "I found it." Shen Yin stared at the prayer beads. "What's your angle?" The man stood up and walked toward the door. "There's porridge downstairs. Come or don't, it's up to you." The door opened. A cold wind rushed in. Shen Yin looked down at his hands. They were stained with paint—the kind that wouldn't wash off, the kind that had been with him for many years. He stood up and picked up his coat.