-Auction a fitting ending

The collectors had settled into their seats, but the tension hadn't eased. If anything, the arrival of the Zhang family had only sharpened it.

David Zhang watched the room like a man surveying a chessboard.

The room had settled, but the tension was razor-sharp.

Jonathan flipped open his clipboard, already prepared. "Each piece will be presented individually. Bids increase in increments of at least one million. Private buyers are responsible for their own transportation and security. Institutions must outline their long-term preservation plans before finalizing acquisition."

The first piece—one of Lex's own Wave Series.

The moment the cloth was pulled back, there was a shift. The bold strokes, the motion frozen on canvas—it wasn't just art. It was movement. It was alive.

Laurent narrowed his eyes, calculating. "Three million."

Kenji Sato answered before Jonathan could breathe. "Five."

Eleanor Harrington snorted, raising a hand. "Six."

David Zhang, who had been watching silently, finally spoke. "Ten."

Madam Zhang's lip curled slightly. "Fifteen."

A ripple went through the room.

Kenji leaned forward, but after a moment, he exhaled. "It's yours."

Jonathan, hand shaking slightly, scribbled it down. "Wave Series No. 1—fifteen million to Madam Zhang."

The Ling Jun & Mei Lei calligraphy set was next.

The Chinese Embassy rep's hand was already up. "Ten."

Kenji Sato, calmly. "Fifteen."

Laurent Chevalier, sipping tea. "Twenty."

Eleanor Harrington, tapping the table. "Thirty."

David Zhang, without hesitation. "Fifty."

The room stilled.

Laurent leaned back, conceding. The embassy rep frowned, knowing he was out.

Kenji Sato, smiling, tapped the table. "One hundred."

Kenji exhaled, shaking his head. "Fair enough. It's yours."

Jonathan let out a long breath. "Final bid—one hundred million to Kenji Sato."

Time after time a piece was auction off to a guest. They spent the afternoon competing, calculating, acquiring. 

Jonathan stepped forward, his clipboard forgotten, his voice lowering into something almost sacred.

"The Final Piece. Three artists. One canvas. A single afternoon."

He let the words settle, watching as the collectors leaned in.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled the cloth away.

Silence.

Not just stillness, but something deeper.

Because what they were looking at wasn't just ink.

It was time.

"It began with an old man." Jonathan's voice was even, steady.

"He was ninety-one when he painted these strokes. A master who had long abandoned urgency, who let the ink move as naturally as breath. He painted not because he had to, but because he always had."

The first strokes were ancient. Rooted. Deep as tree roots, patient as rivers.

Laurent Chevalier exhaled, studying the brushwork. "Lei Yongzhi."

Jonathan nodded. "Yes. He painted like a grandfather telling a story—one he'd told a hundred times, but still found joy in."

Kenji Sato murmured, "Not for himself but the bamboo."

Jonathan smiled slightly. "Precisely."

Then, he moved his hand over the second layer of ink.

Softer, but not weaker.

"Then, a woman's hand followed."

The collectors shifted.

"She did not erase. She did not correct. She simply answered."

The strokes here were gentler, warmer—grace wrapped in motion.

"She was a mother. A teacher. Someone who knew the weight of history, but still believed in its beauty."

Madam Zhang's lips curled slightly. "Mei Lei."

Jonathan inclined his head. "Yes. She painted the way one might guide a child's hand—leading without forcing, shaping without caging. She gave the first strokes warmth."

David Zhang, after a long pause, finally asked, "And the third?"

Jonathan let his fingers hover over the final strokes.

And here—here was something different.

The first had been wisdom.

The second had been love.

The third?

The third was bold. Unapologetic. Alive.

"Then, a child's hand touched the page."

Silence.

Jonathan's voice remained steady. "The third artist did not ask for permission. He did not hesitate. He painted the way children speak—without fear, without doubt."

Kenji Sato exhaled slowly. "The boldness of youth."

Jonathan nodded. "Ling Jun. He saw a story and dared to write the ending."

The air felt thicker now.

The brushstrokes were younger, imperfect in a way that made them powerful.

Laurent whispered, almost to himself, "And the master let him."

Jonathan's voice softened. "Yes. Because even wisdom and love must one day make room for the future."

The Chinese Embassy representative, who had been silent all evening, finally spoke.

"Three artists. Three generations. One moment."

Jonathan met his gaze. "Yes."

The representative exhaled, as if something had settled inside him. It was the truth. The confirmation he had been expecting since the beginning.

"There were three paintings that afternoon." His voice was measured. "But this was the best."

Jonathan nodded. "The only one they signed."

Laurent looked at him sharply. "All three?"

Jonathan simply smiled. Showing the back. Three different hands. Three different seals.

Kenji whispered, "A conversation across time."

Madam Zhang, thoughtful, tapped a single finger against the table. "And now it speaks again."

The room stayed quiet.

No one rushed to bid.

No one dared.

Until—

The Chinese Embassy representative folded his hands, his voice steady.

"I had hoped for such a piece. We knew it must exist, but seeing it…" He shook his head slightly. "It is a bridge. Past, present, future. A piece that does not belong to one collector, but to time itself."

Jonathan said nothing.

The painting had already said enough.

"We will not let it disappear into private hands. The Chinese government places a bid of one hundred million."

Silence.

Laurent sighed, conceding. Kenji Sato smiled slightly.

David Zhang leaned back, murmuring, "A fitting ending."

Jonathan took a slow breath.

"Final bid—one hundred million to the Chinese Embassy."

It was the most fitting ending of the day.