The Remaining Warmth Of Fog Harbor Chapter 2

The Painted Shadow

The thick fog felt almost physical, clinging stickily to Lu Wanheng’s suit sleeves. The silk lining was chilled by the dampness. With every step, her high heels crushed the puddles on the bluestone slabs, splashing fine droplets and creating a rhythmic, cold sound in the silent alley.

Her gaze never left that floor-to-ceiling window. The oil painting inside was half-hidden by the mist, like a dream veiled in gauze, creating a strange sense of detachment from the surrounding dilapidated residential buildings. Lu Wanheng had walked through the art districts of countless cities, seen masterpieces worth tens of millions in auction houses, and viewed meticulously framed avant-garde works in galleries. Yet, no painting had ever captured her attention as easily as this unfinished piece before the window.

There was no exquisite frame, no sophisticated lighting, and the canvas even had frayed edges. The traces of wet paint were clearly visible, yet it possessed an unpolished spiritual aura that seemed to seep from its very bones. It wasn’t a commercial work made to please the market, nor was it a flashy display of technique. Instead, it folded the damp cold of Wugang, the loneliness of the sea breeze, and the tenderness and desolation of solitude into every brushstroke—clean, fragile, and exceptionally moving.

Lu Wanheng stood directly beneath the attic, looking up. Her gaze pierced through the pervasive mist, finally catching sight of the person inside.

The girl sat with her back to the window at an old solid wood drawing table. Her dark hair was loosely pinned back, with a few stray strands falling against her neck, tinted light brown by the cold light filtering in. She wore a faded cream-colored knit sweater with sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing slender wrists marked with thin calluses. Her fingers gripped a stylus, sliding it quickly across a digital tablet. Her figure was so slight it seemed a gust of wind could blow her away.

The studio was cluttered with art supplies. Paint tubes lay scattered, rolls of canvas leaned against the walls, and pencil shavings and paper were strewn across the desk. It was messy but full of the breath of life—a world completely opposite to the pristine, minimalist style of her own penthouse. Standing downstairs, Lu Wanheng inexplicably held her breath, as if afraid of disturbing the person immersed in their own world.

Having spent years in investment banking, she was accustomed to fast-paced negotiations, precise profit calculations, and flawless social etiquette. She was surrounded by either colleagues in suits or calculating partners; everyone wore a mask, and every word carried a hidden purpose. Yet the girl inside was like a plant growing in the cracks of an old wall, possessing a purity untouched by the world and a fragility worn down by life. This contrast caused a faint, imperceptible ripple in her long-frozen heart.

Lu Wanheng raised her hand to straighten her suit collar, which had been dampened by the mist. After ensuring her appearance was proper, she headed toward the attic entrance. This old building had no elevator, only narrow, steep concrete stairs. The handrails were rusted, small advertisements were plastered on the walls, and discarded cardboard boxes were piled in the corners. The air was thick with the smell of damp mold and the faint scent of turpentine.

She climbed step by step, the crisp sound of her heels on the concrete stairs echoing through the enclosed stairwell.

The studio door was an old-fashioned wooden one without a peephole. A small, hand-written wooden sign hung there, stating in elegant handwriting: Zhiyi Illustration, DM for commissions. The edges of the sign were worn smooth, suggesting it had been there for some time. Lu Wanheng stood before the door, her fingertips hovering in the air for two seconds before she lightly rapped on the wood.

Knock, knock, knock.

The three soft sounds broke the silence of the studio.

Shen Zhiyi was staring at her computer screen, revising her ninth food delivery illustration. The client demanded the shrimp be larger and more prominent, the color three shades redder. She gripped her stylus, repeatedly adjusting the saturation until her fingers felt numb and her eyes ached with dryness. The sudden knocking made her whole body stiffen. Her hand jerked, leaving a jarring red line across the screen. She hurriedly pressed undo, her heart pounding uncontrollably.

Her first thought was that the landlord had come to evict her.

Over the past two weeks, the landlord had visited twice to press for rent, each time with a grim expression and words that hinted at her leaving. Shen Zhiyi clenched her palms, which were slick with sweat. She didn’t even dare to look back, sitting frozen in her chair, praying the person outside would leave on their own. She hadn’t gathered enough for the rent yet; she couldn’t face the landlord’s accusations, and she certainly didn’t want to lose the only studio where she could find shelter.

The knocking didn’t resume. The person outside seemed very patient, waiting quietly.

Shen Zhiyi took a deep breath and slowly turned around, looking at the wooden door with a wary gaze. She didn’t open it immediately, only asking softly, her voice trembling and faint: “Who… who is it?”

A woman’s voice came from outside. The tone was cold and low, like the autumn sea breeze in Wugang, carrying an innate sense of distance yet sounding exceptionally pleasant, without a hint of the landlord’s bitterness: “I saw the oil painting through the window. I’d like to speak with the artist.”

It wasn’t the landlord.

Shen Zhiyi’s heart settled slightly, but a new sense of unease arose. She rarely received strangers, especially when the studio was so messy and she was in such a poor state. She looked down at her paint-stained clothes, her messy hair, and the dark circles under her eyes. A strong sense of inferiority surged within her, and she instinctively wanted to refuse.

“I’m sorry, I’m rushing a deadline right now, I don’t have time…”

“I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to ask if this painting is for sale,” the voice outside spoke again. The tone was calm, not forceful, yet possessed an undeniable certainty. “The price is negotiable.”

Selling the painting?

Shen Zhiyi was slightly stunned. That oil painting of the pier was an unfinished piece she had painted on a whim; it wasn’t framed or finalized. She never thought anyone would want to buy it. She gripped the hem of her shirt, hesitated for a long moment, then slowly stood up and walked to the door to unlatch it.

The wooden door was pulled open just a crack. Cold mist and sea breeze rushed in. Shen Zhiyi looked up and collided with a pair of deep, quiet eyes.

The woman standing outside was the ultimate mismatch for this old alley and dilapidated studio.

She wore a perfectly tailored black suit, pressed without a single wrinkle. Her sharp, upright shoulders made her figure appear tall and slender. A glimpse of her fair neck was visible at the collar, adorned with a minimalist platinum necklace. Her cufflinks glinted subtly in the dim light. Her long hair was meticulously pulled back into a low bun, revealing a smooth forehead and a well-defined jawline. Her features were exquisite and cold, her brows slightly arched, carrying the efficiency and pressure unique to a corporate elite.

She was very tall. Shen Zhiyi, wearing flat shoes, had to look up slightly to see her face. The other woman’s gaze fell on her calmly—no disdain, no scrutiny, just a neutral look, as if observing a painting rather than a distressed stranger.

Shen Zhiyi’s heart skipped a beat again. Her fingers gripped the edge of the wooden door so hard her knuckles turned white, and even her breathing became cautious. Among the people she had met—mostly classmates from the Academy of Fine Arts, art dealers, or clients—all were ordinary people with the scent of everyday life. She had never seen someone with such a natural aura, looking as if they had stepped out of a high-end office building. Standing at the entrance of her cluttered attic filled with art supplies, the woman didn’t seem out of place at all. Instead, she looked like a cold portrait, creating a strange contrast with the gentle seascape oil painting in the window.

“Hello,” Lu Wanheng spoke first, breaking the tense silence. She nodded slightly with perfect etiquette. “My name is Lu Wanheng. I was passing by and was drawn to the oil painting in the window. I apologize for the intrusion.”

“Shen… Shen Zhiyi.” She stammered out her name, her voice as light as a breeze. She instinctively shrank back behind the door, trying to hide the messy studio behind her. “That painting isn’t finished yet. It’s a work in progress. It might… not meet your expectations.”

Lu Wanheng’s gaze moved past her shoulder, scanning the interior of the studio. She didn’t care about the paint on the floor or the stacks of paper; instead, her eyes landed precisely back on the seascape oil painting. Her tone was certain: “This is the one. I like it very much.”

Her gaze was too direct. Shen Zhiyi felt her cheeks flush. She awkwardly stepped aside and opened the door wider: “Would you… like to come in and see?”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. There wasn’t even a decent piece of furniture for a guest in the studio, only a folding chair with peeling paint. On the table sat an empty wrapper from a pack of compressed biscuits, and in the corner lay a pile of unpaid electricity bills. Everything screamed hardship. She wished she could find a hole to crawl into, but since she had already spoken, she could only stand stiffly to the side as Lu Wanheng stepped into the studio.

Lu Wanheng walked in, quietly taking in the environment. The cramped ceiling, the damp air, the old furniture—yet everything was organized. Art supplies were sorted by color, and sketches were pinned to the walls, each stroke full of life, showing the owner’s extreme passion for painting. Her gaze finally settled on the oil painting by the window. She walked to the easel and leaned in slightly to examine the details of the brushwork.

“Is this the old pier site?” Lu Wanheng asked, her voice softening a bit as she avoided the wet areas of the canvas. “The mist here and the layers of the sea are handled very well.”

Shen Zhiyi stood in place, her hands clenched tightly in front of her, fingers twisting together. She was so nervous she didn’t know where to look. She was used to expressing emotions through a brush but was not good at face-to-face communication, especially with someone as powerful as Lu Wanheng. Her sensitive, introverted nature was magnified, and she hardly dared to breathe.

“Yes, I went to the pier to sketch over the weekend and painted it on a whim,” she responded in a small voice, her eyes fixed on the tips of her shoes. “It’s not finalized yet. The details aren’t finished.”

“There’s no need to finish it.” Lu Wanheng straightened up and turned to look at her, a rare hint of gentleness in her eyes. “The current state is just right. It preserves the spontaneity of the sketch, giving it more warmth than a meticulously polished final product.”

This was the first time since graduation that someone had used the word “warmth” to describe her painting, rather than “Can you make it more festive?” or “Can you make it more commercial?” or “Keep changing it until I’m satisfied.” Shen Zhiyi’s nose felt slightly stingy. The grievances and frustrations she had suppressed for so long nearly overflowed at this simple evaluation. She blinked hard to force back the moisture in her eyes, still not daring to look Lu Wanheng in the face.

Lu Wanheng noticed her unease and didn’t move closer, maintaining a comfortable distance. She continued, “Would you be willing to sell this painting to me? Name a price.”

Shen Zhiyi finally looked up, first at the unfinished painting, then at Lu Wanheng. She desperately needed money; the 3,800 yuan rent was weighing on her, and every cent would allow her to breathe a little easier. But this painting was one of the few works she had created entirely from her heart, a small spiritual anchor in her miserable life. Selling it felt like selling the last of her dignity.

She bit her lower lip and hesitated for a long time before offering a conservative price: “One… one thousand yuan, is that okay?”

To her, this was a huge sum, enough to cover a third of her rent. But to someone like Lu Wanheng, it might just be the cost of a casual meal. She even prepared herself to be haggled down, her fingers tightening.

Lu Wanheng didn’t hesitate at all. She took out her phone and opened the payment interface: “I’ll transfer five thousand to you. The painting is mine. When you’ve finished it, I’ll come to collect it.”

Five thousand yuan.

Shen Zhiyi looked up sharply, her eyes full of shock, almost thinking she had misheard: “No, no need for that much. One thousand is enough. It’s just an unfinished piece, it’s not worth that price…”

“In my eyes, it is,” Lu Wanheng interrupted her, her tone calm but firm. “I don’t want to drive the price down, nor do I want to fail this painting—or your brushwork.”

Her words were like a beam of warm light, piercing through the thick fog that had long shrouded Shen Zhiyi, shining directly into her gloom-filled heart. Shen Zhiyi looked into Lu Wanheng’s quiet eyes. There was no charity there, no pity, only the purest recognition of a piece of work. This was a level of respect she had never received from her parents, her clients, or anyone around her.

Tears finally became uncontrollable, welling up in her eyes. She hurriedly lowered her head and wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand, her voice thick with emotion: “Thank you… thank you.”

“No need for thanks. It’s an equal exchange.” Lu Wanheng held out her payment code. “Add me on WeChat so we can coordinate the pickup later. If you have other completed works, you can send them to me. If they’re suitable, I might commission something custom.”

Shen Zhiyi’s hand trembled as she took out her phone. The screen was still on the unfinished food delivery illustration. She hurriedly exited and opened her WeChat QR code. Their fingertips accidentally brushed; Lu Wanheng’s were cool and dry, like jade. Shen Zhiyi pulled her hand back as if burned, her cheeks burning red.

A notification to add a friend popped up. Lu Wanheng’s profile picture was a pitch-black deep sea, and her nickname was just one character: Heng. It was as clean as she was. Lu Wanheng completed the transfer on the spot. The notification sound for the five thousand yuan arrival rang out. Looking at the sudden increase in her balance, the tension that had gripped Shen Zhiyi for half a month finally relaxed completely.

The rent was covered. The studio was saved.

“I’ll leave the painting here for now. Take your time, there’s no rush,” Lu Wanheng said, her gaze sweeping over the oil painting once more. “I have work to do, so I’ll take my leave. We’ll keep in touch on WeChat.”

“I’ll see you out,” Shen Zhiyi said, quickly standing up and following Lu Wanheng to the door, still awkwardly clutching her hem. “Be careful on the road, the fog is very thick.”

Lu Wanheng nodded and stepped out of the studio. When she reached the stairs, she suddenly stopped and looked back at Shen Zhiyi standing in the doorway. The thick fog surged up from the stairwell, swirling around her feet. The girl stood in the backlight, her figure thin, her eyes still rimmed with red—like a small white flower dampened by the mist, fragile yet stubborn.

“The fog in Wugang clears slowly. Be careful when you go out,” Lu Wanheng advised. It was an instinctive bit of concern, and even she was slightly startled by it—she hadn’t felt such an inexplicable sense of pity for a stranger in a long time.

“Yes, you too,” Shen Zhiyi nodded vigorously, watching as the other woman’s figure disappeared around the steep corner of the stairs. The sound of high heels gradually faded, finally vanishing into the alley.

She stood at the door for a long time without closing it, letting the icy mist pour into the studio. Only when the sound of a black car’s engine echoed from the alley entrance and slowly drove away into the fog did she finally close the wooden door. She slid down against the door, covering her face with her hands as suppressed sobs finally escaped through her fingers.

It wasn’t sadness; it was a mix of feeling wronged, relief, and the long-awaited emotion of being recognized.

Five thousand yuan had solved her urgent rent crisis, but more importantly, the woman named Lu Wanheng had given her the rarest thing: respect. She hadn’t looked down on her for her hardship, hadn’t dismissed her painting because it was unfinished, and hadn’t been dismissive because she was an unknown freelance illustrator.

Shen Zhiyi slowly raised her head and looked at the pier oil painting by the window. The mist still clung to the glass, and the light on the sea flickered in and out of the fog. She walked to the easel, picked up a clean brush, dipped it in a bit of ultramarine, and gently touched up the edge of the lighthouse’s glow. Her brushstrokes were firmer than before, and gentler.

She took out her phone, opened the chat with Lu Wanheng, typed a line, deleted it, and repeated this several times. Finally, she only sent: Miss Lu, I will finish the painting as soon as possible. Thank you for your recognition.

The message was sent successfully, and the chat fell silent.

Shen Zhiyi placed her phone on the drawing table and sat back down at her digital tablet, but the frustration of rushing cheap commercial illustrations was gone. That brief encounter was like a stone thrown into her calm life, creating ripples. That woman in the black suit, with her cold aura but gentle tone, had left an indelible mark on her heart.

She didn’t know Lu Wanheng’s identity, her profession, or why she had appeared in this dilapidated old alley. She only knew that this unexpected guest on a foggy day had torn a gap of light into her dark life.

Outside, the fog remained thick, and the sound of the sea breeze carried a salty, damp scent through the mist. The smell of turpentine in the studio blended with the fog, and the paint on the canvas slowly dried. The tablet screen was lit, the unfinished food delivery illustration still on the page, but Shen Zhiyi’s thoughts had completely drifted to that cold figure.

She picked up a pencil and, in the corner of a piece of paper, lightly sketched the outline of a sharp profile—the crisp shoulder line of a suit, the pinned-back hair, the quiet eyes. With just a few strokes, she captured the essence.

This was the first time she had ever painted a stranger without a client’s request or the pressure of making a living.

Her pencil paused. Shen Zhiyi looked at the profile on the paper and whispered softly: “Lu Wanheng…”

The name rolled off her tongue, carrying a strange tremor, like ripples quietly rising on the surface of Wugang’s sea—silent, yet already spreading. She didn’t know that this encounter sparked by a painting was not a brief intersection, but the beginning of a destiny. It would drag her into an intensely passionate love that would eventually turn to ashes, causing her to exhaust a lifetime of tenderness and obsession in the lingering warmth of Wugang.

The black car drove out of the old alley and merged into the foggy traffic. Lu Wanheng sat in the driver’s seat, reaching up to loosen her tie. The window was half-down, allowing the mist to brush against her cheek. Her gaze swept over the project report in the passenger seat, but she could no longer concentrate. What kept appearing in her mind was that thin, awkward figure in the studio and that warm seascape oil painting.

Her assistant called to report on the pier project. Lu Wanheng responded in a deep voice, her tone returning to its usual efficient coldness. But only she knew that in that attic studio, a corner of the high wall she had built around her heart had been gently pried open.

She opened WeChat and looked at Shen Zhiyi’s profile picture—a small hand-painted sketch of the Wugang pier, in the same style as the oil painting. The nickname was just her name: Zhiyi.

Lu Wanheng’s finger hovered over the screen for a moment. Ultimately, she didn’t reply. She put her phone back on the holder and stepped on the accelerator, the car disappearing into the deeper fog.

The fog in Wugang continued to drift.

Two completely different worlds, two souls at odds, met because of a painting and formed a bond because of the mist. The threads of fate were quietly entangling in this damp coastal city, never to be unraveled.