Chapter 47
“There’s an art street I often visit.”
If he firmly denied it here, it either meant he truly didn’t know or he simply had no intention of telling me.
There was no point in pressing him for an answer, and if he was lying to me, I didn’t mind being deceived just this once.
“It’s called Zepa Street. If you’re okay with that, how about meeting there next time? It’s especially beautiful on sunny days. Plus, I could be a pretty good guide there. I love the small galleries that display paintings by amateur or struggling artists.”
I hesitated as I spoke. I suddenly remembered how deeply he appreciated and analyzed art. Would he enjoy such paintings?
To me, they were fresh and unique, but what about him? I wasn’t sure.
“Of course, they might not meet your standards…”
Before I could even finish, he answered cheerfully.
“I’d love to. I want to go.”
Max smiled, his eyes curving into crescent moons.
I wasn’t sure if I had made the right decision, but at least I felt a little less guilty.
On the way home, the moon was breathtakingly beautiful.
My heart was filled with a bittersweet after taste, replaying the moments from earlier.
The way he gently tapped my cheek, the quiet understanding in his voice.
The silk gloves were placed neatly on the table, soaked in my tears.
But this wasn’t the same giddy excitement I used to feel as a child when I believed—without a doubt—that such moments would lead to a future.
Now, there was an adult’s bitterness. I already knew this wouldn’t lead anywhere, but still…
I wanted this dream to last as long as possible.
Even if this was just a fleeting illusion, a trick, or a moment that wouldn’t connect to the future—what did it matter?
Even a small act of kindness, even if it was just bait, was enough to make my heart ache with longing.
If there was a price to pay, I would gladly pay it to hold onto this feeling a little longer.
Even though I knew it was like drinking seawater to quench my thirst—only making it worse in the end.
But at least, for now, my empty heart felt just a little bit fuller.
I looked up at the moon through the carriage window.
It was bright and clear, so beautiful, yet so distant.
It made me feel both excited and sad at the same time.
But the moment I arrived home, all those thoughts disappeared in an instant.
“…What is this? What is going on?”
I turned to my maid, bewildered.
My mother, who had come to see what the commotion was about, looked just as confused.
“That’s what I’d like to ask. Where did all these paintings come from? I don’t know much about art, but I even recognize the seals on some of these.”
At the entrance of our house, large framed paintings wrapped in fine paper were being delivered.
Before I could process it, my maid, Hannah, ran up to me, out of breath.
“Miss! These paintings were sent as a gift to you. They’re the ones purchased at the countess’s salon today…”
And suddenly, I realized.
Max.
I rushed over to the paintings.
Through the delicate wrapping paper, I could see glimpses of the artwork.
A table overflowing with peaches, painted with thick, expressive strokes.
“I love how this artist uses color—especially when painting fruit. The pinks and yellows look like soft blush and halos. It’s as if you could almost smell them.”
Another painting showed ancient, ivory-colored gods drifting across the night sky, embracing one another, playing harps, their faces lost in a dreamlike haze.
“I love the sense of impermanence in this painting. The gods are all busy with their tasks, yet they show no emotions—it’s as if everything is meaningless to them. The aged ivory tones make them seem detached, almost inhuman. It’s haunting, yet strangely comforting as if reminding us that everything has always been this way under the eyes of the gods.”
They were all paintings I had admired, ones I had spoken about with deep emotion.
I stood there in shock.
Then, my mother approached me with concern.
“Carmilla… why are you crying?”
I reached up and touched my face.
I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
Idiot.
He said he wouldn’t make me cry again.
And yet, not even a day had passed, and here I was, crying once more.
I never knew kindness could be so cruel.
It was unbearable knowing that this warmth wasn’t mine to keep—that it would eventually pass me by.
It made me greedy.
But it also made me feel like I shouldn’t be.
I wanted to love him.
I wanted to believe in him.
But at the same time, I remembered how hard it is to trust.
Should I ask for his family name?
Should I ask why he knows me?
Should I ask who he is?
Should I ask why he’s being so kind to me?
Should I ask if he likes me?
But in the end, I shook my head.
The way he avoided revealing anything about himself.
The way he said it would be a lie to claim he didn’t know me at all.
I couldn’t figure it out.
So instead of searching for answers, I simply placed my hand on the frame, running my fingers along the edges.
Even if I didn’t know his reasons, the warmth that filled my heart because of them was real.
Like a small light glowing in the darkness.
So, I decided—I wouldn’t ask anything.
In just a few meetings, he had given me so much.
So, I wanted to follow where he led me, even if I didn’t know why.
Then, Hannah suddenly ran up to me.
“Miss! He also left this for you.”
She handed me something small that gleamed under the moonlight.
A silver rose.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
How many of these has he given me already?
It was childish and ridiculous, but somehow… endearing.
It made me feel giddy.
It made me look forward to tomorrow.
Yes.
This was enough.
In the end, I had the paintings hung in my room.
Even after that, there were still more, so I placed them in my favorite spots around the house.
My room, which had always been quite plain, looked completely different with all the paintings.
I had been staring at them and smiling without even realizing it.
“Miss, you must like them,” my maid, Lysdel, commented.
I blinked.
“Was I smiling?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes! Every time you look at them.”
I turned to the painting of the peach basket, noticing the warm, soft colors again.
And this time, I was fully aware—I was smiling.
“I mean… they’re beautiful. Just looking at them makes me happy.”
My father, however, had a different reaction.
He was thrilled—because to him, this was a financial opportunity.
“This one was auctioned for three thousand gold last year! If we keep it, the value will go up.”
He looked at the paintings closely and sighed.
“Too bad it’s not from the Angel series. That one would be worth even more.”
He then started talking about which paintings to sell and when.
I clenched my fists, feeling the anger rise inside me.
Then, he made the mistake of offering to sell them for me.
I exploded.
“Father! Why do you always think about selling things first? Why are you like this? These paintings are not for sale!”
Startled by my outburst, he quickly retreated.
As I glared at the closed door he had just escaped through, I suddenly felt a laugh bubbling up inside me.
It was absurd, childish, and somehow… delightful.
For the first time in a long while, my life felt full of little, ordinary moments.
A beautiful painting, an argument with my father, laughter in an empty room.
I was happy.
I was alive.
And for now, that was enough.
