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... slightly as if the painting itself didn’t want to end.

Nongmin and Xin Yune stood together beneath the bodhi tree, still and eternal on the silk scroll I’d stretched across the wooden frame. The mother’s smile, the son’s weary eyes, the way her hand curled around his sleeve like she was holding him back from fading… I’d captured it all, or so I hoped. Art never got you the full truth, just the shadow of it. But maybe that shadow was enough.

I bowed my head to the painting. Then, ...

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