The Artist Behind |Seongjoong|

1

Early spring, the day of my birthday, my family decided to move from the city to a small town in the mountains. Else said, in the middle of nowhere. So here we were, unpacking our stuff after moving them in since the crack of down. It was irritating to do it, or it was just me who was annoyed, to begin. After all, leaving my home and friends to move to another place and start a new lifestyle, that's not something simple. Though I couldn't complain, the house was nice, plus I got a spacious room all for myself.

"Don't frown, my dear, I'm sure you'll love it here," my mom told me while unpacking the next box. "And you can make friends with the local kids too!"

"I know, mom, but I can't just forget about my mates back there," I said faintly.

Mom nodded in response then sent me to my room, saying she can finish the rest in the kitchen on her own. I listened to her, headed upstairs to my bedroom. The second one on the left, next to the staircase leading to the attic. Probably the room that felt most suitable to me. I don't know if it was because of the lots of natural lightning or the view of trees, or perhaps the warm intimate feeling it had. Possibly all of them? Oh, and that painting above the bed. A lovely illustration of flowers and butterflies, it was somehow completing the room.

...

"Mom, where should I put these?" I asked pointing at the stack of empty plastic boxes. She gazed at me and pointed up, meaning the attic. I nodded taking the empty boxes.

I put them down and took a look around. The attic, even dusty, was pretty. The windows were made of stained glass, so the light transformed this space into a kaleidoscope. And the old-style furniture laying around seemed appealing to me. I walked around checking the things up close. There were some shelves with books, probably the previous owner enjoyed reading. There stood as well some frame-shaped stuff wrapped in white sheets, I took them off to find out more paintings like the one in my bedroom. They were mainly wildflowers and butterflies.

While gazing at the paintings I noticed something was behind. Beneath the wallpapers were showing traces of something like a small door. My fingers slipped to its shapes feeling there was a door underneath. It got me all interested. I tried to tear the wallpaper with my fingernails, however, it was too hard, it required something sharp, like the letter cutter I saw on the shelves. I took the blade and checked it before gently cutting it on the edges. It remained a bit of a challenge but made it, and now I could open it. Yes, but not exactly. it was locked. Great, another obstacle. A sigh left my lips, I ached to see what's on the other side. Maybe it was a child's playroom or just a broom closet, or there was a hidden treasure. Who knows?

Suddenly I had a thought, why not break it like in a movie. Put the knife's blade inside the lock next shacked it. I know it sounds ridiculous, yet it worked. The lock snapped and I could open the door instantly. And there was another room. An art atelier.

It was half the size of my bedroom yet still had a space for a cabinet, desk, and a tripod. Or at least this was my guess cause everything stood hidden under white cloths. Seemingly this was the atelier of the artist who created all those artworks I saw. Immediately I grew even more interested than previously. Rushing to take off the furniture covers unintentionally filled the room with dust. I felt it sticking to the back of my throat making me cough. Yet, it was worth it. Beneath the clothes were beautiful wooden pieces coated with paint and ink, on the cabinet were leaning blank canvas, on its shelves, there were paint tubes, bottles with pigments, brushes, and other painting essences. On the desk, there stood rough sketches of ideas for future works, some pencils, and charcoal used for their making were also there.

However, to me, the most stunning was the painting laying aesthetically on the tripod. A portrait of a pretty youthful man, possibly about my age. Clear pale skin, fuzzy black mullet, gorgeous delicate lips, sharp pointy nose. His eyes, were sparkly and warm as if they were alive and looking at me.

"Are you the one who painted all those?" I asked him, gently stroking his face; there was no way he could answer.

Another sigh left my lips, for some reason my heart was aching toward him. Who was he? What was his story? Why did he leave everything here? I craved to know.

"Only if you could tell me," I caressed his cheek again. "Are you still somewhere out there painting more beautiful artworks?"

It was eating me inside out, that need to find the true story of the man. Ah, maybe I could search for information about him online. Yes, that was a good plan, but first I felt like I had to clean this place. He shouldn't stay in this dusty environment.

"Ah, before anything else, let me clean your studio," I said and gave him a soft grin.

...

It took me a while to clean everything, there was dust worth numerous years. But this couldn't stop me, I wanted to see this place in its complete shine, like when he was still using it. And I made it, the room stood spotless if we don't include the dry paint splashes on the floor and furniture. I was pleased with my work and even got a reward. While cleaning I discovered an old diary written in pretty handwriting. His diary. I thought.

I was about to sit down and read it when my mom called me for dinner. I didn't want to leave this room, yet. Getting one last glance at the painting of the beautiful man, I left the room. I'll come back tomorrow, I promise. I told myself on my way down to the kitchen.