Chapter Two:The Concert Mural

4
At dusk, Lin Xiaoyang pushed open the hotel’s main door. The afterglow of the sunset reflected on the lake, the mist over the water light and airy, like a thin veil gently draping the golden ripples. He hurried upstairs, entered his room, locked the door behind him, then sat at the desk facing the lake and began organizing his travel notes.

He opened his laptop and adjusted a driving route map, his fingers occasionally gliding over the touchpad, carefully filtering the attractions along the itinerary. As he revised, he would quietly read aloud while sketching in his notebook, marking spots for illustrations to be added later. Lost in thought, he looked up at the lake; the last rays of sunlight flickered over the ripples, like a dance costume woven from golden threads, an invisible dancer moving gracefully.

While pondering, a wave of fatigue overtook him. He rubbed his brow and, seeking comfort, rested his head on the desk for a short nap. He did not know how long he had been asleep when a strange sensation startled him awake—there seemed to be another person in the room.

He opened his eyes slightly, and his peripheral vision caught a shadow on the desk that did not belong to him, slender and upright. His heartbeat accelerated instantly; the light source came from the floor-to-ceiling window, and the figure behind him was clearly projected on the desk.

But… the door was locked from the inside.

Lin Xiaoyang held his breath and slowly turned around.

A young man stood in the center of the room, expression calm, wearing a navy blue long robe, buttons on the chest neatly fastened, a red flat felt hat on his head, and round-framed glasses on his face. His features carried the contours of an East Asian, gentle and refined, with an aura of an older era in his demeanor.

Lin Xiaoyang suddenly recoiled, back pressed against the desk edge, and asked in surprise, “Who are you? How did you get in?”

The man lightly pushed up his glasses, speaking with composure: “I am Huang Lihua. I have always lived in this room.”

Immediately, Lin Xiaoyang’s mind flashed to the signature on the mural in the living room—“Huang Lihua.”

“You are… the painter?”

“Yes.”

Before Lin Xiaoyang could process this astonishing discovery, the man added calmly, as if he could hear Lin Xiaoyang’s inner thoughts:

“Yes, I can hear your thoughts. I apologize.” Huang Lihua smiled faintly, expression gentle, yet this only sent chills down Lin Xiaoyang’s spine.

“How… how can you…” Lin Xiaoyang’s voice trembled, his scalp tingling.

“That is not important,” Huang Lihua said casually. His tone was calm, but a subtle, elusive expression flashed in his deep eyes. He raised his right hand and slowly pointed toward the living room: “I have always lived there.”

Following his gesture, Lin Xiaoyang looked at the mural. The European-style living room remained serene, furnishings classical, a yellow brass chandelier hanging in the center, the piano’s lid half-closed, as if a concert had just concluded.

“Living… in… the painting?”

“That’s absurd,” Lin Xiaoyang thought.

He suddenly stood up and hurried toward the mural, examining it carefully. His fingertips glided along the frame; the surface was cold, the texture of the canvas distinct, with nothing unusual.

Huang Lihua followed, standing beside him, speaking calmly: “In 1922, I completed my studies, traveled to Switzerland, and checked into this hotel—ever since.”

“1922?!” Lin Xiaoyang turned sharply, staring at him in disbelief. “Are you saying… you have lived for over a hundred years?”

“If you look at the date on this painting, you will understand.”

Lin Xiaoyang lowered his head, eyes scanning the signature in the corner of the canvas: “April 13, 1925…” He suddenly raised his head, voice trembling, “But… you look younger than me!”

Huang Lihua smiled faintly, eyes deep: “That is because those who live long-term in this hotel do not age.”

Lin Xiaoyang inhaled sharply, shock written plainly on his face: “How… is that possible?”

“You may not believe it, but it is the truth,” Huang Lihua said firmly, his gaze calm and composed.

Lin Xiaoyang’s heart raced uncontrollably; he instinctively stepped back: “So… you are a ghost?”

Huang Lihua shook his head and extended his right hand, palm upward: “You can touch it. My hand is warm.”

Lin Xiaoyang hesitated for a moment, then finally extended his fingertips, lightly touching the man’s palm.

…It was indeed warm.

In that instant, his mind nearly collapsed.

“You… you have lived here all these decades?” He swallowed and asked with difficulty.

“Yes,” Huang Lihua’s tone was calm, but a faint trace of sadness flickered across his eyes. “I once briefly returned to Paris, but quickly came back here, because—”

He paused, eyes drifting toward the forest outside the window, voice low: “I cannot go anywhere else.”

Lin Xiaoyang frowned: “Why?”

Huang Lihua spoke softly: “Because this forest is called the ‘Forest of Oblivion.’”

Lin Xiaoyang’s heart jolted. Just as he was about to ask more, a melodious piano sound suddenly reached his ears. He followed the sound; in the mural, the piano trembled slightly, the keys moving on their own, the music gradually becoming clear.

“There is no time to explain; the concert is about to begin,” Huang Lihua’s eyes suddenly brightened. He smiled gently, extending his hand: “Come, I will take you in.”

Lin Xiaoyang shivered, stepping back cautiously: “In… in where?”

“Inside the painting.”

Huang Lihua lightly grasped his wrist.

The space around them began to tremble slightly; the mural seemed to ripple like water. Lin Xiaoyang’s heart raced wildly. He struggled to pull back his hand, but felt an invisible force drawing him forward.

The next second—he was no longer in the hotel’s living room, but standing in a courtyard ablaze with lights.

The music echoed continuously, melodious and mysterious.

Lin Xiaoyang looked around in fear. Huang Lihua stood beside him, corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and whispered:

“Welcome to the world inside the painting.”

5
An hour later, Lin Xiaoyang followed Huang Lihua to his studio. Pushing open the carved wooden door, a faint scent of pine mingled with the smell of paints. The studio was spacious and quiet, with three walls covered in various artworks—watercolors with their light and flowing motion, gouaches with delicate layers, prints with sharp and resolute lines, and sketches with both incisive and gentle strokes. Oil paintings were the most numerous, with thick canvases and vivid colors, each seemingly a frozen story.

Sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, slanting across the easel in front of the courtyard. The unfinished oil painting on the easel faintly revealed the silhouettes of figures, as if the souls had not yet fully descended into the canvas.

Huang Lihua approached the easel and gently brushed off the dust, smiling slightly: “This is my world.”

Lin Xiaoyang’s gaze wandered around, eyes full of astonishment: “These paintings… are all yours?”

Huang Lihua turned, waving his hand lightly, with a trace of pride: “Yes.”

Xiaoyang stepped closer to the wall, his fingers sliding gently along the frame edges, eyes flickering: “There’s quite a lot…”

Huang Lihua nodded lightly, tone calm yet carrying profound weight: “Over three thousand pieces. What you see now is only about one-tenth; the rest remain in the storage room, waiting for the moment they should be awakened.”

Lin Xiaoyang was dumbfounded, inhaling sharply: “Over three thousand pieces? That… that could practically be a private gallery!”

Huang Lihua’s lips curved slightly, a trace of nostalgia flashing in his eyes: “For ninety years, my days have almost entirely been devoted to painting. These paintings are the record of my life.”

He turned and led Lin Xiaoyang to a corner of the studio, where an ancient full-length mirror stood. The silver frame was intricately carved, the mirror’s surface shimmering, as if it held countless untold stories.

Huang Lihua slightly turned his body, his tone unusually serious: “Step in, and you can return to your room. But remember—you must never come in alone. The paths here are more complex than you imagine, and I don’t want you to get lost inside.”

Lin Xiaoyang stood before the mirror, hesitating slightly, then turned to Huang Lihua: “Tomorrow… can I come again?”

Huang Lihua smiled faintly, tone carrying a hint of mystery: “Tomorrow evening, wait for me in the lobby downstairs, little brother.”

Lin Xiaoyang nodded, inhaled deeply, and then stepped into the mirror. Just as he was about to disappear, Huang Lihua gently raised his hand and waved at him—the mirror rippled briefly, then returned to silence, as if nothing had happened.

6
Lin Xiaoyang walked back to his room in a daze. Opening the door to the living room, silence immediately enveloped him. The sounds from the painting moments ago now seemed never to have existed; the room was left with only the deep night and a faint smell of oil paints in the air.

His gaze unconsciously fell on the mural on the wall. The scene in the painting remained serene and silent, yet recalling the mysterious music from moments ago, a strange chill arose in his heart. Xiaoyang stepped forward slowly, raising his hand and lightly touching the canvas. The cool sensation passed through his fingertips, making his heart skip a beat. He pressed gently inward, but found that the wall behind the painting was solid.

“What’s going on?” Xiaoyang frowned, replaying the moment he had heard the sound in his mind. “Clearly, there was sound coming from the painting… but there is no secret door, no gap at all…” His fingertips traced the edges of the frame, as if seeking some hidden mechanism, yet found nothing.

The questions in his mind refused to leave. Huang Lihua—what kind of person was he, really? Was his existence a coincidence, or some kind of arrangement?

Xiaoyang sighed, full of doubt, and walked back to the bed, collapsing onto the soft pillow. Yet sleep did not come. He tossed and turned, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mind in chaos.

“Huang Lihua definitely isn’t a ghost…” he murmured to himself, recalling his confident, steady tone, the slightly weary smile, and the eyes that seemed to see through people’s hearts. But if he isn’t a ghost, then what is he?

“Could he be the legendary vampire?” The thought sprang to mind, and Lin Xiaoyang startled at it. He remembered the legends: vampires were immortal, lovers of art, skilled at manipulating human hearts… Huang Lihua had lived in this building for ninety years, claiming that almost his entire life was devoted to painting—ninety years. Could an ordinary person really do that?

“Why would he actively approach me?” Xiaoyang frowned uneasily, recalling Huang Lihua’s last words to him—“Tomorrow evening, wait for me in the lobby downstairs, little brother.”

“What does he really want?”

The room contained only the ticking of the clock, urging the night to deepen. Xiaoyang turned over, closing his eyes tightly, trying to calm himself. Yet the questions in his heart surged like tides, pushing his thoughts into an unknown darkness.

He did not know how long had passed before faint morning light crept through the window; the sky had brightened. Drowsy, Lin Xiaoyang finally fell asleep, yet in his dreams, the painting, the sound, and that mysterious man continued to linger.