well

The days after Zhou Yu left are like a faded oil painting with an eternal gray-blue background, but upon closer inspection, the brushstrokes of life are still slowly and stubbornly adding new layers.

The "Expired Spring" Foundation is gradually getting back on track. I haven't interfered too much in the details, leaving it to the professional team. However, I regularly review the submitted application materials and portfolios. This has become one of the few warm connections I maintain with the outside world.

Those paintings, sculpture sketches, and video projects, sourced from all corners of the world, are filled with raw sharpness, awkward sincerity, and a wildness untamed by the market. Looking at them, I often lose focus, remembering Zhou Yu's earnest gaze as he flipped through my doodles, unable to understand them but still understanding them.

What would he say? He'd probably frown, analyze it for a long time using his theory of return on investment, and finally sigh and say, "Okay, I don't understand it, but since you like it, then invest."

The thought of this would unconsciously raise the corners of his mouth to a faint arc, and then be drowned by a deeper loneliness. The money he left behind was nourishing a fragile and free dream that was completely opposite to his world in a way he might never have imagined.

---

I still spend most of my time in the studio. Creating has become another form of breathing, necessary and unstoppable.

The painting "Path" on the easel had already been completed and had been spotted by a discerning curator who wanted to include it in a group exhibition on "Memory and Contemporaneity." I agreed. The day I gave the painting away, a large space in my studio suddenly felt empty, as if a corner of my heart had been gently hollowed out.

I didn’t immediately start a new large-scale creation, but picked up the sketchbook again. I stopped painting those heavy emotions and memories, and started painting some trivial daily things.

The sparrows resting on the electric pole outside the window, the broken spider webs beaten by wind and rain, the dewdrops condensing and evaporating on the windowsill in the early morning, and even the ripples on the surface of a cup of cold black coffee gradually calming down.

My brushstrokes become incredibly slow and focused, almost like a meditation. I'm capturing those fleeting, easily overlooked moments of existence, attempting to find an absolute, almost brutal, stillness within them. These paintings have no purpose: not to be exhibited, not to be sold, not even to be seen by anyone. They are simply quiet evidence of my presence.

Occasionally, I would wear the ginkgo leaf necklace. The cool metal would touch my skin, and after a long time, it would absorb my body temperature.

---

Life wasn't completely dead. Several of Zhou Yu's close friends, especially his special assistant, Mr. Lin, would contact me regularly. Initially, it was out of obligation, to report on the foundation's operations. Later, they would occasionally bring me industry news or simply ask about my recent situation.

"Mr. Zhang, the weather has changed a lot recently, please take care of yourself." "There's an art charity dinner next week, and the organizers have sent out invitations. Take a look..." "A young artist that Mr. Zhou has been following has an exhibition in 798 Art District soon. Perhaps you'd be interested."

I usually decline invitations to public appearances, but occasionally, I agree to go to the exhibition.

Wearing simple casual clothes, he mingled with the well-dressed crowd in the art circle, quietly looking at the paintings and listening to the obscure or boastful comments.

No one knew who I was, nor did anyone know the tenuous connection between me and this exhibition, built on money.

It's a strange feeling, like an invisible bystander, observing a world that I once longed to be a part of but now feel alienated from.

After the exhibition, I would walk alone along the cold railway tracks of 798 until night fell. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the air was cool.

I will think of Zhou Yu accompanying me to the exhibition, the way he tried hard to understand but couldn't hide his commercial instinct in analyzing the value. My heart was filled with subtle sadness, but also a strange warmth.

---

The biggest change happened on an extremely ordinary afternoon.

My mother arrived in Beijing without warning, carrying bags of local specialties, filling my refrigerator. "Look at you, you've lost weight again! You look so pale, haven't you been eating well again?" She wore an apron and bustled around in my small kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans creating the long-lost, homely clatter.

She never mentioned Zhou Yu, instead rambling on about trivial matters at home and neighborhood gossip, forcing me to drink the soup she'd spent the entire afternoon making. It was hot, rich, and brimming with her unique, almost obstinate, care.

Halfway through my drink, tears suddenly fell into the bowl. She stopped nagging, looked at me quietly, then walked over and gently hugged my head with her warm, calloused hands. "Cry, it'll be better if you cry..." Her voice choked with sobs, "Mom is here."

At that moment, all the forced calm crumbled. Like a long-lost child who had finally found home, I sobbed in her arms, pouring out all my grievances, fears, and longings. She simply patted my back and said over and over again, "I know, Mom knows everything..."

She stayed in Beijing for a week. During that week, the studio was filled with the aroma of food, sunlight shone through the clean glass, and painting supplies were neatly put away.

She forced me to eat on time, took me for a walk in the park in the evening, and even tried to teach me her signature braised pork recipe.

The day she left, the airport was packed. She took my hand and shook it firmly: "Chenzhi, take care. Xiaoyu hopes you're well."

I watched her pass through security and her back disappeared in the crowd. The cold wasteland in my heart seemed to be injected with a warm current, although it was weak, but it was real.

---

I started trying to get out of the studio.

Instead of going to exhibitions, I've been to more everyday places. The morning market, brimming with the clamor of vendors and the vibrant energy of life; the afternoon park benches, watching the elderly play chess and children run; or even simply sitting in a corner coffee shop, watching the hurried passersby outside the window, and spending the entire afternoon there.

I remained silent, still carrying a lingering sense of loneliness. But I began to relearn how to be "present," how to observe and feel this world without him as a simple "existence."

Sometimes, I would subconsciously pick up my phone and want to take a picture of a strange cloud in the sky, or a cat napping on the side of the road, and habitually want to send it to someone who would never reply.

My finger hovered over the send button, stunned, and then slowly put the phone down. That momentary sense of emptiness was still sharp, but the duration seemed to have shortened by a few tenths of a second.

I began sketching these moments in my sketchbook: fish struggling in a basin at the market, an elderly couple supporting each other in the park, birds fleeting past a coffee shop window. My brushstrokes remained quiet, but with a subtle touch of observation and curiosity about life itself.

---

Another dusk.

I finished my walk and returned to the studio downstairs. I looked up out of habit and saw warm lights shining through the windows on my floor.

My heart suddenly tightened, and then I laughed. I must have forgotten to turn off the lights when I left home this morning.

I pushed open the door, and warm light streamed in, dispelling the dimness of the hallway. The room remained silent, the only sound being my breathing. An unfinished sketch lay on the easel, a half-read album lay on the sofa, and the unwashed cup from this morning lay in the kitchen sink.

Everything is as usual.

I walked to the window and watched the lights gradually light up in the houses below. Behind each light, there was probably a story of joy and sorrow, silently unfolding.

The ginkgo leaf necklace around her neck swayed slightly.

I suddenly remembered the words in Zhou Yu's letter: "Don't keep thinking about me. But remember to live well, including my life."

Live well.

It's not about grand success, it's not about fame and success. Perhaps, it's just like this. I can feel the boiling hotness of the soup, I can pause for a beautiful cloud, I can sense a false sense of companionship in a light I forgot to turn off, and then, I continue to pick up my brush and paint my own tiny, insignificant piece of sadness and tranquility in this vast world.

The night deepens.

I turned on the stereo and played an old song that we both liked, then walked to the easel, mixed the colors, and started painting.

The canvas remains silent.

But I know that tomorrow, the sun will rise as usual.

And I'll be here.

Keep living. Keep feeling. Keep painting.

Until life expires.