A sharp knock at the door.
Lex barely had time to set his brush down before turning toward it. Right on schedule.
He pulled the door open to find a thin, impeccably dressed man in his late fifties, with wire-rimmed glasses and the composed air of someone who measured his words carefully before speaking them.
The Met's Chinese art expert.
The man gave a polite nod. "Mr. Latham. I am Professor Liang Wenhua." His Mandarin was smooth, precise.
Lex smirked faintly, replying in kind. "Professor Liang. Welcome."
If the man was surprised at Lex's fluent Mandarin, he didn't show it. He simply stepped inside with quiet authority, eyes already scanning the space.
"Shall we begin?"
Lex motioned for him to follow.
The Wave Series stretched across the gallery, ink crashing over canvas in bold, sweeping motions. Seventeen paintings lined the walls, each stroke deliberate, controlled—telling a story only a few could truly read.
Professor Liang read it.
His hands stayed neatly folded behind his back, but his gaze moved with sharp recognition, tracing the evolution of technique, the subtle shifts in emotion layered beneath the surface.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"These were painted in grief."
Lex's smirk barely flickered. "Good eye."
Professor Liang continued, his voice low, thoughtful. "A progression—anger in the first waves, quiet mourning in the later ones. Number Nine…" His head tilted slightly. "Acceptance."
Lex exhaled slowly. He was right.
Number Nine had been the first painting where the waves calmed. Where the ink had settled into something beyond rage, beyond loss.
Professor Liang finally turned to him. "And the missing pieces?"
Lex's smirk returned. "Two sold at auction, two on loan."
The professor hummed, but his expression didn't change. "Then let's continue."
The tea room was different.
More intimate. More personal.
Lex slid open a wooden case, revealing carefully stacked scrolls—each one neatly preserved, bound in silk and stamped with seals.
Professor Liang's breath caught.
Then, without hesitation, he moved forward.
He reached for the first scroll, his fingers light but practiced, and unrolled it with precision.
The ink, despite its age, was still bold, still alive.
A plum blossom—elegant, unshaken by the weight of time.
The professor inhaled deeply, eyes scanning the calligraphy at the side of the painting. Then—he spoke.
"Mei Lei. 1973. Gifted to an old friend upon parting."
Lex tilted his head slightly. Correct.
The professor reached for another.
An ink-wash bamboo grove.
He barely hesitated before murmuring—"Ling Jun. 1995. A study of movement and stillness."
Lex's fingers curled slightly against the table.
Professor Liang knew.
Not just the paintings. The artists. The exact years.
He was flawless.
Lex leaned back, watching as Professor Liang moved through the collection with effortless precision.
Every scroll he touched—he knew it.
The artist. The era. The meaning hidden between the strokes.
He unraveled another—a bold, unyielding ink wash of mountain peaks.
"Lei Yongzhi. Late Qing Dynasty. Around 1898. This was painted in the final years before his exile."
Lex exhaled slowly. Correct.
Professor Liang never hesitated.
A lotus blossom—Mei Lei, 1985.
A falcon perched on bamboo—Ling Jun, 1996.
A misty riverbank—Lei Yongzhi, 1887.
Perfect recall.
Lex studied him carefully. He wasn't just an expert—he had studied these names before.
Then, finally, Professor Liang reached the last scroll Lex had set aside.
A single, striking piece.
A blum blossoms in a winter storm.
The strokes were bold, fluid—controlled chaos, yet deeply intentional. Movement, resilience, strength.
Professor Liang ran his fingers just above the ink, not touching it, but tracing the weight of each brushstroke.
Then—he looked up.
And for the first time since stepping into the room, he paused.
His eyes flicked to Lex, sharp but unreadable.
He knew.
He didn't say it aloud, didn't acknowledge it in words. But he knew.
Ling Jun wasn't just a name from the past.
He was standing right in front of him.
Lex's smirk was subtle, challenging. "Well?"
Professor Liang hummed, rolling the scroll back up with practiced care. "Exceptional."
His voice was even, but his eyes—sharp, knowing—lingered on Lex just a second too long.
Lex held his gaze, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. He knows.
But neither of them said it.
Instead, Lex moved smoothly, reaching for the lacquered tray at the side of the room. With the same precision he had once applied to ink, he poured tea.
The scent of oolong and aged leaves filled the air, steam curling between them like something alive.
Professor Liang accepted his cup without a word, lifting it with both hands. Respectful. Measured.
Lex did the same, tilting his head slightly. "You named every piece without hesitation. You've studied this collection before."
Professor Liang took a slow sip, his gaze calm. "I have studied many collections."
Lex exhaled softly. "Not an answer."
Professor Liang smiled faintly, setting his cup down with careful precision. "Answers are often less important than the questions that bring us to them."
Lex smirked. "That sounds like a way to avoid giving one."
The professor chuckled. "Or a way to invite a better conversation."
He reached for the scroll of the Wave Series and traced the air just above the ink, following the movement of the tide with the same deliberate care as one would handle a live coal.
"These," he said, voice low, "are grief given form. The tension in the strokes, the balance between control and surrender—this is someone who understands the weight of loss."
Lex's fingers tapped idly against his cup. "Observation or assumption?"
Professor Liang took another sip of tea, watching him over the rim. "Neither. It is recognition."
Lex's smirk barely twitched, but he didn't interrupt.
The professor gestured toward another set of scrolls. "Your waves—" a pause, measured, "—they seek understanding. But the flowers?" His gaze flicked back to Lex, sharp. "The flowers are something else entirely."
Lex inhaled slowly, tilting his head. "Go on."
Professor Liang leaned back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the table. "I teach calligraphy as a form of expression. The brush reveals what words cannot. The untrained hand sees only ink. The trained hand sees intention."
His voice softened. "And an artist—one who has lived enough—knows that a brush does not lie."
Lex's grip on his cup tightened slightly.
The professor tapped lightly against one of the floral paintings. "The waves ask what it means to lose."
Then, quietly—"The flowers ask what it means to exist despite it."
Lex went still.
Professor Liang did not press further. Instead, he simply lifted his cup, studying the swirling tea leaves. "There are some who paint for others. And some who paint because they cannot do otherwise." A slight smile. "I believe I know which kind you are."
Lex exhaled through his nose, smirking faintly. "Do you?"
Professor Liang didn't answer directly. Instead, he set his cup down with a quiet click, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Lex simply rose from his seat, moving toward a lacquered chest tucked away in the far corner of the tea room.
Professor Liang watched him carefully, silent but expectant.
Lex ran his fingers along the polished wood before lifting the lid. Inside, neatly preserved beneath layers of silk, were the pieces that had never been for sale, never been displayed.
These were Mei Lei's favorites. The ones she considered worthy of gifting.
Lex lifted the first scroll, unfolding it with a slow, practiced motion. The silk unraveled like a breath, revealing a single, perfect plum blossom.
Not in full bloom. Not yet.
The ink bled just enough at the edges, giving the petals a delicate imperfection—as if caught in the moment before they fully opened.
Professor Liang inhaled softly. Not surprise. Not shock. Just understanding.
Lex set it aside and revealed another.
A crane, mid-flight, the ink strokes so fluid that it almost seemed alive—as if it had just taken off from the paper itself.
And finally—
Lex unrolled the last piece, the one his grandmother had once pressed into his hands with a knowing smile.
A bamboo grove.
But not just any.
This one was young. The stalks were thin, still growing, bending slightly under the weight of wind but never breaking. The leaves reached upward, unafraid.
Lex traced the air just above the ink, his voice quieter now. "These were her favorites."
Professor Liang studied the collection, his eyes lingering on the bamboo. "Because they were honest."
Lex exhaled softly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. "She used to say that the best paintings don't just capture a subject. They capture a truth."
Professor Liang nodded. "Your grandmother was wise."
Lex rolled the last scroll up carefully, setting it aside. "So? What do you think?"
Professor Liang smiled. "I think these are the ones that matter."
Lex smirked. "I agree."
Professor Liang looked at him, thoughtful. "You are willing to loan these?"
Lex exhaled, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. "Select pieces. On my terms."
The professor nodded, expecting nothing less.
He gestured toward the bamboo scroll. "This one. And the plum blossom. They must be seen."
Lex tilted his head. "Any particular reason?"
Professor Liang's lips curled slightly. "Because they tell the truth." His gaze flicked to Lex. "And the truth should never be buried."
Lex chuckled, low and quiet. "You really do teach calligraphy like it's philosophy, don't you?"
The professor sipped his tea, unbothered. "Because it is."
Lex rolled his shoulders. "Fine. They can go into the loan agreement."
Professor Liang nodded approvingly. "I will personally oversee their transportation and restoration. You have my word—nothing will be altered, only preserved."
Lex raised a brow. "You're taking personal responsibility?"
The professor set his teacup down with a quiet click. "Some things deserve respect."
Lex studied him for a long moment before finally nodding. "Good."
Professor Liang stood, smoothing out his sleeves. "I will have the final selection listed in the official documents. We will handle the details with your lawyer."
Lex smirked. "Elias will appreciate the efficiency."
Professor Liang chuckled, stepping toward the door. "Then consider it settled."
Lex watched him go, the lingering scent of tea and ink still hanging in the air.
He glanced down at the last scroll, fingers ghosting over the silk binding.
Mei Lei would have approved.