The afternoon sunlight carried an almost translucent quality, like a delicate veil slipping through the tall north-facing skylight of the studio. It sliced the quiet space into two sharply divided worlds—one bathed in warm gold, echoing the tenderness of days gone by; the other cast in cold, steely blue, as if fate had already stolen every trace of warmth. Li Qing stood alone before the easel, cradling a massive sheet of transparent acrylic canvas in her arms. It felt as light as a cloud, yet as heavy as every unfinished dream weighing on her heart. Sunlight fell across her fingertips, pale from months of wasting away, and they trembled faintly. The subtle friction along the canvas's edge brushed against her like the lingering echoes of time across her soul—fragmented, endless, refusing to fade.
This had once been a canvas meant for two souls. Now it was her solitary battle, a beast she fought alone in the dark. She whispered to it softly, as if Zhang Xiang were still standing right beside her. "Xiang… look, I've brought it out again. You always said that as long as we painted it together, it would never be lonely. But now… it's only me."
The colors on the canvas were vibrant yet chaotic, mirroring the tangled threads of Li Qing's heart. Every bold stroke, every deliberate blank space, was a testament to her bone-deep obsession with her late lover, Zhang Xiang. This unfinished piece was their final collaboration, the last time their hands had moved as one. Once, this studio had been their sanctuary, a place where they traded body heat and inspiration, building an ideal world within this transparent realm. Now, these few square feet had become her only altar.
She ran her fingers lightly over the surface, tracing the dried pigments as if she could still feel the warmth of Zhang Xiang's palm from all those years ago.
"Qingqing, look at this lake—I want to paint it exactly like the day we first met," Zhang Xiang's voice rose vividly in her memory. It was that summer, standing before the very same canvas; he had smiled and handed her the brush, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. "The air smells of grass and lake water. Can you smell it? Let's turn this into our own paradise, okay?"
She had blushed then, answering, "Xiang, you're always so romantic. But I'm afraid time will wash all these colors away…"
"It won't," he had said firmly, taking her hand. "As long as our brushes keep moving, time will stay frozen in its most brilliant moment."
Her gaze drifted to the center of the canvas, where a serene lake lay captured. The setting sun bled across it like spilled ink, turning the water a fiery red—as though the earth itself was pouring out its final heat before night claimed the day. On the shore stood two blurred figures, their younger selves. Li Qing closed her eyes, and she could almost hear their laughter drifting through the canvas's weave, warm against her face. That day by the lake, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the grass, Zhang Xiang had turned to her, his voice as gentle as the water itself. "Qingqing, if you ever get tired, just lean on my shoulder. I'll keep painting until we're too old to hold a brush."
She had laughed and nudged him. "Silly, who said we'd stop only when we're old? We're going to paint for a lifetime—until the whole world is just the two of us."
But now those words were only echoes. Li Qing's throat tightened. She spoke to the canvas again, her voice barely above a whisper. "Xiang… do you still remember that day? You promised we'd be together forever… Why did you lie to me?"
In one corner of the canvas, Li Qing had meticulously sketched an old wooden desk. It was cluttered with ink bottles, brushes still damp with paint, and a small notebook with yellowed edges, stuffed full of sketches. That desk had been the place where their souls collided most fiercely. Zhang Xiang loved working late into the night, and Li Qing would bring him warm coffee. Every brush of fingertips, every heated debate over composition, had become the midnight heartbeat of their studio.
The memory flooded back like a tide. One night under the desk's dim lamp, Zhang Xiang had rubbed his temples and sighed. "Qingqing, this composition just isn't right. What color should the trees by the lake be?"
She had set the coffee down and rested her hands on his shoulders. "Warm orange—like the way you make me feel. Xiang, don't rush. We'll figure it out together. You know… every time I watch you paint, it feels like the whole world shrinks to just us two."
He had turned, eyes brimming with tenderness. "With you beside me, I dare to paint like a madman. Qingqing… thank you for always understanding me."
She had smiled and kissed his forehead. "Silly… I don't just understand you. I love you."
Now, standing alone, Li Qing could almost smell the faint fragrance rising from that desk—turpentine mingled with old paper, the unique warm scent that had always clung to Zhang Xiang. Her fingers hovered above the canvas, afraid to touch, terrified the scent would vanish forever. She murmured, "Xiang… I still make coffee for you every night. But can you… taste it anymore?"
Yet on the opposite side of the canvas, the mood shifted abruptly to something icy and unforgiving. A withered old tree thrust its roots into empty space, its shriveled limbs spreading like wild grief, strangling everything in their path. This was the part Li Qing had added alone after Zhang Xiang left. Every brittle branch accused fate's cruelty; every falling leaf carried the collapse of her soul.
That day she had stood before the easel, tears long since dried. She had picked up the brush, hands shaking so badly she could barely hold it. "Xiang… you left without even saying goodbye. We promised we'd finish this painting together!" She had sobbed as she painted each stroke of the tree, every line carving deeper into her heart. "You said you'd never leave me… you liar!"
She eased the canvas back onto the easel and stepped away. In the shifting light, the transparent surface reflected her own image—gaunt, fragile, her eyes shattered yet burning with a desperate, all-or-nothing devotion. This canvas was more than art. It was her private line to another world, the umbilical cord between them that death had not yet severed. She still believed that as long as she never set down her brush, Zhang Xiang had never truly left; his soul lingered in the cracks between the pigments.
"Xiang… if you're still here, give me a sign," she whispered to the canvas, voice trembling. "Even if it's only a breeze… let me know you haven't gone far."
But reality was merciless. Zhang Xiang's departure had been an unforeseen polar night, swallowing every ray of light in Li Qing's life. These past years she had lived like a delicate porcelain doll—outwardly intact, yet inside crisscrossed with hairline fractures. Others marveled at her strength; only she knew it was sustained by the scraps of memory alone. God alone had witnessed her countless nights of collapse, when she curled on the floor trying to capture warmth that had long since vanished from the air.
That profound, drowning kind of longing was something no one in this noisy world could understand. It wasn't casual conversation over tea; it was a disease that had grown into her very bones. At night she often spoke aloud to the empty studio. "Xiang… do you know I talk to this canvas every single day? I'm afraid that if I stop… you'll really disappear."
Suddenly an unstoppable wave of sorrow surged from deep in her chest, slamming straight into her tear ducts. Li Qing straightened her spine by habit, trying to fight the physical ache with sheer stubbornness, but the gesture crumbled before the avalanche of memories. She remembered their very last conversation—Zhang Xiang lying in the hospital bed, his hand weak but still warm around hers, voice faint yet gentle. "Qingqing… finish it for me, okay? For both of us."
She had swallowed her tears and answered, "I will. Xiang… you have to get better soon. We still have another painting to do together."
But he never got better.
Her vision blurred. Hot tears spilled without warning, splashing onto the cold floor and into the fiery sunset painted on the canvas. She finally surrendered completely; every defense she had built shattered in that instant. Let her cry. In this little room that had once witnessed endless sweetness and hope, in this realm of art born from death, let her weep like a child who had lost the entire world. Every tear was a silent elegy; every sob was a whispered call of his name.
"Xiang… I miss you so much…" She collapsed to her knees before the easel, arms wrapping around the canvas as if she could hold the last of his warmth. "Why… why am I the only one left?"
Outside the studio, the slanting sun sank lower. Inside, Li Qing drowned alone in this dream called remembrance, refusing, for a long time, to wake.