Peony had never imagined her painting would hold anyone's attention for more than a fleeting moment, yet here she was—watching as whispers turned into murmurs, murmurs into conversations.
The merchant who had first spoken stood beside the painting, discussing it with another man. "It's not just the city," he said. "It's the whole world. We've ignored this for too long."
A woman, a cloth vendor, crossed her arms. "We know things are bad, but what can a painting do? It won't clean the air or stop the greed."
Peony, who had been silent all this time, finally spoke. "Maybe not. But change starts when people see what they've been ignoring."
The cloth vendor frowned, but she didn't walk away. That was enough for Peony.
More people gathered. A scholar muttered about how the strokes conveyed urgency. A beggar pointed at the crumbling buildings in the painting, nodding as if he saw his own home in them. A young woman carrying a basket whispered, "I never thought about it like this before."
It was happening. The painting was no longer just Peony's—it belonged to all of them now.
Then, a deep voice cut through the air. "Who is the artist?"
Peony turned. A man dressed in fine, but worn, noble robes stood at the edge of the crowd. His sharp gaze landed on her.
Peony hesitated. Was this trouble? Would she be punished for daring to paint such things?
The noble studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I want to commission a piece."
The crowd stilled. Peony's breath caught. A commission?
The noble continued. "Something that doesn't just show what's broken—but what can be done to fix it."
Peony stared at him. A new kind of painting? One that didn't just show the decay, but the possibility of renewal? One she had never considered before.
Maybe the world could be changed and her way would light the path.