So, casting aside all those things that did not belong to fate, she was destined to be alone.
Just like this studio at this moment, it was destined to hold only her solitary figure.
Soon, Yu Qing finished the sunrise painting she had created from memory.
Through a window steeped in dark, somber tones, one could see the heavy clouds on the horizon outside, and at the distant edge of the sky, the faint sliver of a round sun peeking through.
But perhaps because the exposed corner of the sun was too small, the painting as a whole was still dominated by vast stretches of darkness.
The pitch-black window, the brooding clouds beyond it, and the sparse orange sunrise were like a prisoner trapped in a cage, futilely gazing at specks of unreachable light as they were gradually swallowed by the clouds.
It was called a sunrise painting, yet it possessed none of the atmosphere she had wanted—the golden light of dawn spilling across the earth.
It only gave people a suffocating, oppressive sense of struggle.
This was not a sunrise painting. It was simply a work overflowing with melancholy.
Still holding the paintbrush stained with golden-yellow paint, Yu Qing examined the freshly completed piece.
After a long while, she curled her lips in self-mockery. "Sure enough, melancholy is my talent..."
Even a casual painting of hers gave people nothing but an uncomfortable sense of oppression and gloom.
Just as her words fell, someone suddenly shouted from outside the half-closed studio door, "Melancholy Sis, come eat!"
The abrupt voice startled Yu Qing so badly that she jerked.
Her hand trembled, and the brush she was still holding accidentally dragged a long, winding golden streak across the painting. Against the vast gray-black backdrop, it was exceptionally glaring.
Author's Note: [Yellow