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墨書 Inktalez
The air in the shop was filled with a faint scent of sandalwood. Under the dim yellow light, various antiques—pendants, rings, and bracelets—emitted a soft glow. The man glanced at me and slowly spoke, "What are you looking for?"
I paused for a moment, biting my lip. "This pendant... does it have something special about it?"
The man adjusted his glasses and looked at my pendant. He said softly, "The wheels of fate cannot be changed by avoidance."
Hearing those words, I suddenly looked up at him, but he did not continue to explain; he simply turned and walked toward the counter. I stood there, my mind swirling with complex emotions. For some reason, his words seemed to strike a chord within me, leaving me momentarily disoriented.
As I stepped out of the small shop, my head felt dizzy. Lin Feng's words echoed in my mind; I tried to grasp something, but nothing came to me. I looked down at the pendant in my hand; it lay quietly there, yet it felt as if an invisible force was subtly guiding my fate.
When I returned home, I collapsed onto my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The air in the room felt stifling, making it hard to breathe. I closed my eyes but found it impossible to sleep.
Suddenly, my phone rang, startling me. I picked it up to see that it was my mom calling. Frowning slightly, I hesitated but eventually swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Xiao Yan, there's a blind date tomorrow. The other person is an artist; he seems quite nice," my mom said with a hint of expectation in her voice.
"An artist?" I scoffed lightly. "Mom, can’t you let me rest for a few days?"
"If you keep resting like this, you'll be thirty soon! Jiang Yan is quite talented; he's not like those who only know how to scheme. He has pursuits and ideals in life—maybe you two will hit it off," she rushed through her words and added, "Don't let me down."
After hanging up the phone, I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time in a daze. I looked down at the pendant; it lay quietly in my palm while my heart felt as if something was pressing down on it.
Perhaps this time would be different?
The next day at three in the afternoon, I walked into the art-filled café right on time.
As I pushed the door open, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafted towards me, like an invisible hand gently brushing against my senses.
The paintings on the wall formed a whimsical world with their bold colors and daring lines, each piece seemingly alive, whispering its own story in my ear.
I paused briefly in front of an abstract painting, attempting to decipher the intricate patterns and layered hues.
“Xiao Yan?” A deep, gentle voice came from behind me.
I turned around abruptly to see a man in a loose white shirt standing not far away. His hair was slightly tousled, but his eyes burned bright like flames.
“Hello, I’m Jiang Yan,” he said with a smile, extending his hand towards me. There was a hint of nervousness in his gesture, yet it carried an unmistakable sense of anticipation.
“Hello,” I replied politely.
His palm was warm and dry, reminiscent of a blanket just pulled from beside a winter hearth. The sensation made me instinctively lower my guard.
“Are these paintings your work?” I asked, pointing to one on the wall. The dense lines intertwined like tangled thoughts, yet the colors were unexpectedly vibrant and cheerful.
He nodded, a flicker of pride flashing in his eyes. “Yes, they are my reflections on life.”
“They’re wonderful,” I said sincerely. “Each one seems to tell a captivating story.”
A smile curved at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you for your affirmation. In fact, each painting has a special story behind it. If you’re willing to listen, I can share them with you.”
In that moment, his gaze ignited like a small firework display, dazzling enough to hold my attention captive.
We found a seat by the window, and he began to share his creative journey with enthusiasm.
The sunlight streamed through the café's glass windows, casting a warm glow on the table. As he spoke passionately, the light in his eyes shone even brighter than the sun.
"This piece was inspired by an old man I saw collecting scrap on a rainy day; that one captures the colors of a dream..." His voice flowed through the air like a long melody, gradually enveloping me in its embrace.
My heart began to stir with an unfamiliar emotion—his fervent pursuit of art was something Chen Jia had never possessed.
For a while, we were nearly inseparable.
He took me to the countryside to sketch, creating impromptu works under the sun; on moonlit nights, he painted my likeness on canvas.
Those moments were so beautiful they felt surreal, like a dream that one both cherished and feared waking from.
One day, as we strolled through a sea of flowers in the countryside, he carried his sketchpad and pencil, observing my expressions while swiftly outlining my features.
"Don't move!" he suddenly exclaimed, squinting at me with intense focus. "Right now, you look like a spirit among the flowers."
His words made me blush slightly. "That's such an exaggeration."
But he didn’t respond; he simply lowered his head and continued to draw. His earnestness made me hold my breath.
Before long, a vivid portrait emerged before my eyes—there I was, smiling brightly as if I could step out of the canvas at any moment.
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