A Gift of Fate: A Painting

Although adjusting to the time difference was grueling, on the day she finally got over it, Panqiu felt as if she had been reset, as if she had undergone a complete transformation.

She began to enjoy waking up with the first light of dawn each day, preferring to lie quietly in bed, letting her hair brush against the folds of the pillowcase, waiting for the lightness in her body to gradually awaken.

At those moments, she would often look around silently, examining the space that she had built and was slowly taking shape—a quiet and firm sense of satisfaction would quietly rise up.

This was a feeling she had never experienced before: at home, she lived within the order set by her parents; in the dormitory, she could never truly have a corner of her own. But now, every inch of the space, every choice, was made by herself—clear, quiet, and requiring no explanation.

In the center of the room stood a white metal-framed double bed with clean, simple edges. She had also bought new down pillows and a comforter, covered with light gray pillowcases and duvet covers. Lying on it felt like nestling into a giant cloud. Soft—though a dark cloud. But she didn't mind; the light density and enveloping feeling were perfect for relieving fatigue.

To the right of the bed is a minimalist yet spacious bedside table. To the left of the bed is a dressing table with a mirror, displaying her skincare products and a few small pieces of jewelry.

A long wooden bench sits at the foot of the bed, making it convenient to sit down and change clothes when getting in and out of bed. She has also laid a large, round, dark gray rug under the foot of the bed, enjoying the feel of walking barefoot on it when she gets up and before going to bed—soft, warm, like a buffer tailor-made for her rhythm.

A height-adjustable desk was placed by the window, reflecting her small obsession with "efficiency." The curtains were carefully chosen by her; they were a creamy yellow with a slightly frosted texture, neither too bright nor too dull, a color between sunlight and dusk, subtly casting a soft glow over the room.

On the day of delivery, she stood at the door, watching several burly men skillfully assemble the parts, as if witnessing a silent ritual. She knew she wasn't the type to use tools to unpack boxes, and she didn't presume to do it herself.

Thanks to her parents, she didn't hesitate to spend the "installation fee"—for her, spending money to maintain order is a part of life.

In contrast, Zhiwei's lifestyle is much more casual.

She found a lot of secondhand furniture in the department's WeChat group: a single bed, a bamboo-topped desk, and a simple floor lamp. She didn't care about the style, the colors weren't uniform, or the sizes didn't matter, as long as it worked.

Panqiu was occasionally infected by her ease. Zhiwei always solved problems in the simplest way and enjoyed it.

Zhiwei stumbled upon the "backyard charity sale" one day.

That day on my way to school, I saw a sign hanging on a tree by the roadside. The edges of the paper were curled, and the writing was faded. It had a crooked arrow pointing towards the street corner, and it read: "Saturday, 9:00 AM, Backyard Sale, 45 Oakwood Ave."

Zhiwei is someone who always gets to the bottom of things when she has a question. After checking it out when she got home, she realized that this was a common local practice of "decluttering." Residents would put unused items in their yards when the seasons changed or they moved, waiting for passersby to come and see if they could find them.

The next day, Zhiwei excitedly dragged Panqiu along to go.

Panqiu couldn't resist, and at first she didn't have much expectation. She just stood by the front yard of the stranger's house, looking at the various objects spread out on the lawn—like a kind of showdown of life.

Plastic dolls, old skateboards, and secondhand books were piled up in one corner, but most of the items were various small pieces of furniture and household appliances. The air was filled with the smell of sun-dried wood and fresh grass, creating a subtle sense of decay, as well as a touch of excitement from peeking into other people's lives. But as she wandered around, she began to understand why Zhiwei liked these things.

“You never know what you’ll encounter,” Zhiwei said, picking up a slightly old but still sturdy bookshelf. “It’s like a random gift from fate—with a price tag, five dollars!” She laughed as she finished speaking.

Zhiwei has clear goals; she focuses on practical items: bookshelves, shoe racks, storage baskets, and desk lamps. She's there to solve everyday problems.

But the arrival of autumn is unexpected.

She saw the painting in the corner of a wooden table covered with a clean white cloth. The canvas was small, framed in a light-colored wooden frame, and leaned against the wall at an angle, placed slightly forward than the utensils and art books next to it.

There was no dust, no wrinkles; it looked as if it had been carefully selected and was quietly waiting to be discovered by someone who liked it.

It depicts a tree, viewed from below. The trunk rises straight up from the bottom of the painting; it is not thick, but exceptionally clear, lifted with a single, crisp stroke of brown oil paint, giving it a subtle sheen.

It is slightly off-center from the center of the painting, running through the vertical space of the entire painting, and only slowly unfolds its branches at the top.

The background is a soft, cool white, mixed with very light gray-blue and pale blue, like the light of dawn when the morning mist has just dissipated.

The branches spread out slowly and steadily at the top, with pairs of pinnate leaflets arranged in a clear outline but with soft edges, as if a light breeze had just blown by.

Beneath the outermost few leaves, there are a few tiny red berries—the color is like cinnabar ink, just a few, but enough to make one remember them.

Above the tree canopy, there is a great deal of blank space. It is a deliberate blank space—not like a lack, but more like a space deliberately reserved for looking up.

The painting has no text or title, yet it possesses a restrained yet clear presence. The colors are clean, the brushstrokes are controlled, and the details are gentle. It doesn't depict a ostentatious tree, but rather a tranquil, vertical extension.

She stared for a long time, as if watching a beam of light descend from above, or as if gazing at a future yet to unfold.

She also picked out a flowerpot. It was made of ceramic, with a delicate and smooth surface, a simple shape, and a slightly tapered waist. The glaze was a special kind of yellow—between lemon yellow and mustard yellow. It was understated yet warm and bright, with a touch of milky softness and just the right amount of brightness.

She didn't actually know what kind of plant to grow, but she had already decided to place it next to her desk by the window where the light would be best. In the future, she could grow a small, slow-growing green plant, letting its branches and leaves slowly emerge from the yellow hue, allowing time to add a gentle touch.

She stood there for a while, holding the painting and the flowerpot, feeling something gently connect between them in the air. One was growing upwards, the other waiting to be planted; one was already quietly finished, the other had not yet begun.

She didn't categorize the two things together, but she knew they would gaze at each other for a long time in her room—when she woke up alone, read by herself, or was lost in thought.