After treating Shen Zhiwei to a meal, Lu Jia returned home just past nine in the evening.
She stepped out of the elevator and glanced at the door to the right with her peripheral vision. Her expression remained unchanged as she turned left, pushed open her door, and locked it.
She hung her trench coat in the entryway, then lowered her head to empty her pockets, placing her personal items neatly on the entryway cabinet alongside her keys to pack them up again before heading out tomorrow.
She passed through the living room and went straight into her studio.
The watercolor painting still hung in its original spot. These days, whenever she worked on carving plates, she would zone out and stare at it for a long time.
Because of this, Lu Jia had been trying to finish her daily work at the College Building lately. When she got home, she mostly sketched drafts.
She took a swig of fruit wine straight from the fridge, the pervasive alcohol scent making her frown instinctively.
The alcohol content was low, mixed with a full glass of ice cubes and topped with some beverage.
Yet her thoughts easily grew hazy.
No inspiration.
She had gone a week without doing it with Sheng Shubai before, but this time felt completely different.
Perhaps Lu Jia knew deep down that there would be no more opportunities to “spark inspiration” afterward.
The ideas that had once flowed endlessly now lay dormant, leaving her with only the sound of her own steady breathing.
She switched from the stylus to a long-forgotten pencil, then left the studio with her sketchpad, curling up comfortably on the sofa. An hour passed, but the pencil tip still hovered over the paper, leaving only a faint trace of graphite.
Lu Jia wasn’t sure what she should draw.
Since enrolling, all her woodblock prints had been realistic portraits.
She used to glance Sheng Shubai up and down, and inspiration would pour out.
She would even mull over which composition had more expressive power, picking and choosing before settling on the final direction.
The pieces she made after growing close had earned high praise from Rong Yi, and not long ago, Sheng Shubai had even asked for photos to send to President Sheng.
Over the past six months, not only had her subjects become more innovative, but her carving techniques had improved tremendously.
Sheng Shubai’s hands-on lessons lingered, but Lu Jia felt as if her once reliable inspiration had been utterly depleted, vanished without a trace.
She closed her eyes briefly, then reopened her tablet, intending to sketch something else.
It was a rough draft she had outlined before: a high-rise floor-to-ceiling window, a woman leaning against it with a wine glass in one hand, gazing disdainfully into the distance.
The strokes on the layers were messy, the lines and color blocks rough. Lu Jia remembered clearly—this sketch had come to her in a haze of passion when Sheng Shubai had pinned her against the window one time.
Later, inspirations came one after another faster than she could paint, so this one ended up piled in the drafts folder with the other half-finished pieces.
She created a new layer and began inking over the rough sketch.
She finished the outline but paused again when she reached the expression.
The pause lasted nearly twenty minutes. Lu Jia let out a soft sigh, set the stylus aside, and reached for the round-mouthed glass on the side table.
The ice had melted more than halfway.
She furrowed her brows and took a sip; the alcohol was diluted by the melted ice water, tolerable now.
She clearly remembered how she had envisioned it—or rather, the noble, aloof expression was vivid in her mind—but every stroke felt off.
Buoyed by the alcohol, she erased and revised until her phone buzzed softly beside her. Lu Jia pursed her lips and set the stylus down.
It was a message from Sheng Shubai, asking if she had gone to Shen Zhiwei’s office today.
Lu Jia lowered her eyes and typed: “Yes, she invited me. I went to see some video footage of a painting.”
The later Chinese version of the video had been narrated by Song Lan herself.
Compared to the obscure professional terms in the English version, Song Lan’s narration wove in the artist’s life and creative background.
Her tone was gentle, like a leisurely storytelling, with wording that was accessible yet insightful.
If Lu Jia hadn’t known what kind of person she was, she might have taken a liking to this stranger just from the video.
But toward the end, as the footage pulled back from close-ups to the full view, Song Lan’s explanation tapered off, and her words shifted.
Her attitude turned exceptionally warm, saying that if Lu Jia was interested in the work, she should visit her collection hall in Country A next year for the competition—she would personally host her.
Hearing this, and meeting Shen Zhiwei’s burning gaze, Lu Jia’s suspicions were confirmed.
The foreign-language version was probably for public outreach, while this Chinese one was specially recorded for her.
Lu Jia didn’t hide anything and told Sheng Shubai everything.
The chat went silent for a long while, as she expected.
She thought Sheng Shubai would reply with a simple “Received” like last week, but instead, a voice message popped up.
“How did I do last time at the Old Mansion?”
The background noise wasn’t too loud; Lu Jia could faintly hear the familiar blues music.
No need to guess—the woman was at her usual bar.
Sheng Shubai went to the bar as frequently as ever, but since that day, she hadn’t called Lu Jia to pick her up.
A few times in the middle of the night, Lu Jia had fallen asleep sketching on the sofa. In such an environment, she only slept lightly and woke to noises from the hallway, realizing Sheng Shubai was home.
She would groggily check the time—three or four in the morning—then stumble back to her room to sleep.
She didn’t dwell on whether Sheng Shubai had come back alone or been dropped off by someone else.
It had nothing to do with her anymore.
Lu Jia typed back: “You were the best. No one else compares.”
Of course there was no need to ask—those days, Sheng Shubai had been right by her side, effortlessly covering ancient and modern, Chinese and foreign. Anything Lu Jia asked about in more detail, Sheng Shubai expanded on until she fully understood.
She was truly an excellent teacher.
Remembering the scene, Lu Jia felt not just admiration but a touch of nostalgia.
Unfortunately, there probably wouldn’t be another chance.
Just as this thought crossed her mind, another voice message came from the woman, her drunken slur more pronounced:
“A small portion of the collection was out on loan for an exhibit before, but most have been returned lately. Next time you’re free, want me to take you back?”
Lu Jia: “Sure, thank you. Sorry to trouble you, Miss Sheng.”
She didn’t know what she was thinking, or if Sheng Shubai’s sudden mention of those days in Z City stemmed from hearing about Song Lan’s overtures and feeling uneasy, eager for reassurance from her.
Reassurance that she wouldn’t abandon the light for darkness.
Of course she wouldn’t leave.
Lu Jia thought that even without her feelings for Sheng Shubai, she wouldn’t be fooled by Song Lan’s hypocritical facade.
But no new messages came.
Lu Jia held her phone, waiting calmly as the screen dimmed and finally went dark.
Her gaze shifted back to the tablet, lingering on the woman’s unfinished facial outline.
Her tightened fingertips twitched, grasping the stylus, but she opened her phone again instead.
Lu Jia tapped into the chat and replayed the woman’s two voice messages.
She listened to each several times, memorizing the pauses, the lazy drunken cadence, before setting the phone aside and downing the rest of her wine.
Sheng Shubai’s voice was beautiful—low and alluringly soft, without any forced affectation.
Perhaps because it was a voice message to someone familiar, or due to the alcohol, her pronunciation was relaxed, carrying Z City’s distinctive softness.
Less clear than hearing it in person, veiled by drunkenness, the second message’s rising inflection at the end was even more disorienting.
It made her want to agree to anything.
Lu Jia exhaled slowly and continued drawing.
Her strokes no longer hesitated.
The expression details she had puzzled over flowed out seamlessly, the stylus flying across the surface as her stalled inspiration burst forth again.
Just chatting with Sheng Shubai a bit seemed to unclog the blockage in her thoughts.
The wine glass sat ignored until the ice fully melted; Lu Jia had no time to deal with it.
Finishing the line art pushed her into the early hours, well past her usual bedtime.
Lu Jia rubbed her throbbing temples, stretched her shoulders, neck, and wrists. From the corner of her eye, she saw the neglected half-glass of wine, now chilled by the early winter night. She picked it up and sipped it slowly.
She curled up on the sofa again, hugging the tablet to refine details, and unknowingly fell asleep.
Until noises sounded from the door again.
Tonight’s sounds dragged on. Lu Jia lay on the sofa with her eyes closed, listening for two minutes. She was fully awake now but puzzled why the other hadn’t entered yet.
After another half minute of silence, she heard no door opening.
Unable to sleep, Lu Jia pushed herself up from the sofa and went to the entryway to check.
Sheng Shubai wore a deep brown wool coat, its hem half-covering her white skirt. She leaned against the door handle, steadying herself.
Seeing Lu Jia open the door, Sheng Shubai raised her drunken eyes, her tone slightly startled: “Lu Jia?”
Lu Jia nodded and explained, “I heard the noise, so I came to check.”
“Sorry, I woke you.”
Sheng Shubai gestured to the door: “The door lock’s battery died. Can’t open it. I was about to go to a nearby hotel.”
Lu Jia paused: “It’s late. Want to come in and sleep?”
A hotel was no match for home comfort.
Besides, given Sheng Shubai’s habits, without pajamas or her usual toiletries, she wouldn’t settle for roughing it one night.
Sheng Shubai nodded, leaning into Lu Jia’s arms as the girl guided her inside.
The woman’s alcohol scent wasn’t strong, mingled subtly with a soft, fragrant warmth that wafted to Lu Jia’s nose.
Lu Jia didn’t know how much she had drunk, but her reactions were drunker than usual.
She helped Sheng Shubai onto the sofa and fetched honey water from the kitchen to sober her up.
“You drank?”
Sheng Shubai narrowed her eyes, tilting her chin toward the empty glass on the coffee table: “Didn’t you used to dislike drinking?”
Lu Jia’s steps faltered slightly, but her expression stayed normal: “No inspiration, so I had a bit.”
She handed the honey water to Sheng Shubai; it was just the right temperature.
Sheng Shubai thanked her softly and sipped it slowly, head lowered.
She didn’t react to Lu Jia’s words, her long lashes casting shadows that hid her unreadable gaze.
After she finished, Lu Jia emerged from the bathroom: “All your stuff is still here. I’ll get it. Shower and sleep in the master bedroom.”
They used to sleep together often, alternating houses.
Lu Jia kept a full set of Sheng Shubai’s toiletries—from makeup removal and cleansing to skincare—plus a set of pajamas that had gotten wet and left behind, which she pulled from the closet and handed over.
Sheng Shubai nodded: “Okay, thanks.”
After washing up, she noticed the hallway light still on.
Remembering Lu Jia’s yawns, Sheng Shubai figured she might be asleep. She turned off the light first, then quietly pushed open the bedroom door in the dimness.
The room was too dark to make out shapes; relying on memory and faint outlines, she made her way to the bed.
Lu Jia always left the left side for her, so Sheng Shubai was used to it.
She lifted the covers and finally slipped into the soft bed.
Sheng Shubai closed her eyes contentedly and whispered to the figure beside her: “Good night.”
The habit had formed unconsciously. She rolled over, intending to hold Lu Jia as she slept.
But her arm stretched into empty space.
