Peony stood at a distance, watching as a few more people stopped to glance at her painting. Some only looked for a second before moving on, uninterested. Others lingered, their brows furrowing as they took in the bleak, chaotic cityscape she had painted.
She didn't expect anyone to praise it. She didn't want empty compliments. What she wanted—what she hoped for—was for them to see.
The small boy who had stopped earlier was still staring, his mother whispering something to him. Then, to Peony's surprise, he turned to her and asked, "Did you make this?"
She hesitated. The question felt heavier than it should have. Claiming ownership of something that challenged the way people saw their world felt like standing in the middle of a storm. But Peony nodded.
The boy smiled—a small, knowing smile, as if he understood something even adults didn't. "It looks like the city, but... sadder."
Peony knelt beside him. "Because the city is sad. People just don't notice anymore."
The boy thought about this for a moment, then pointed at the gray sky in the painting. "Can it be fixed?"
Peony blinked, caught off guard. She had never thought about it that way. Her art had always been about exposing the truth, not offering solutions. Could the world be fixed? Could the things she painted be changed?
Before she could answer, someone else spoke.
"It's... different."
Peony turned to see an older man standing nearby, arms crossed. He wore the robes of a merchant—someone used to numbers, not art. But his eyes weren't dismissive. They were thoughtful.
"Not the kind of painting you'd see in a noble's hall." His voice held no mockery, just observation.
Peony met his gaze. "Because it's not for decoration. It's a warning."
The man exhaled, rubbing his chin. "A warning, huh?" He looked back at the canvas. "Well... maybe more people need to see it."
Then, to Peony's shock, he turned and called over a few other merchants. The small crowd grew, people whispering, pointing. Some frowned, some nodded, others murmured their own interpretations.
Peony stood still, her heart pounding. For the first time, her work wasn't just hers. It belonged to the people who saw it, who felt something from it.
And maybe, that was the beginning of change.