The Winter Plum

Nat left with her painting, grinning like she'd just made the best trade of the year. Lex watched her go, arms folded, shaking his head slightly.

She didn't even try to negotiate. Just declared she wanted it, paid, and walked off like a winner.

Typical.

Lex turned back to the ink-stained workspace, eyes scanning the scattered brushes and half-empty bowls of pigment. The smell of fresh paper and drying ink lingered in the air.

His gaze drifted to the unused sheets stacked neatly beside him. Blank. Waiting.

He wasn't tired yet.

Lex reached for a new canvas.

Nat had asked for a flower—hers, loud and bold, resilient against the storm.

But now, another image tugged at the edges of his mind. A different flower, one that carried a quieter kind of strength.

His brush hovered over the page.

Then, instinct took over.

Mei blossoms.

Not the soft, fleeting petals of cherry blossoms—not something delicate or transient. No, this was a winter flower, one that bloomed in frost, untouched by the cold.

His grandmother.

Mei Lei Latham had never been loud. She had never been the kind of woman who fought battles with force. But she had been unyielding in a way that no storm could shake.

She had been a pillar in a family built on ambition.

Lex dipped his brush into the ink, the first stroke landing with quiet certainty.

A single branch, strong yet slightly curved, bending but never breaking.

Then another.

The flowers followed—small, clustered, petals opening against the bare winter branches. Tiny blooms of pale pink and deep crimson, standing alone against a stark, snow-covered world.

He worked in silence, the movements practiced yet new.

Every time he thought he had it, something felt off.

The lines weren't right. The balance was too harsh. The petals too rigid, or too soft, or too unnatural.

He started again.

And again.

Variations formed—some stark and minimal, some fluid and soft, some full of color, some only in black and white.

But none of them felt exactly right.

Lex sat back, rubbing his thumb against his palm, ink smudging slightly.

His fingers itched.

Something was missing.

He stared at the latest attempt, watching the ink settle into the page. The branches, the flowers, the way they curved against the wind—almost right, but not quite.

He picked up the brush again.

Maybe one more.

Lex exhaled slowly, shaking out his wrist before dipping the brush back into ink. The candle beside him flickered, casting shifting shadows over the half-finished paintings strewn across the desk.

He had tried again and again, each attempt closer but still… wrong.

Not wrong in technique. The strokes were clean. The balance was there.

But it lacked something.

Weight. Depth. Truth.

Lex frowned at the newest variation, the ink barely dry. The branches were steady, the petals soft but firm—but it felt empty.

Why?

His grandmother had never been soft. Never been fragile. She was a woman who carried entire histories in her hands, who lived between two cultures and made something wholly her own.

He closed his eyes, searching for her—not as a figure, not as a lesson, but as a moment.

Something real. Something only he would remember.

And then—

A memory surfaced. Clear. Sharp. Perfect.

He was six years old, hands covered in ink, frustration simmering in his small body. His strokes were clumsy, his characters uneven. The brush felt too big, too heavy.

His grandmother watched silently from across the table, letting him struggle, letting him try.

Then, after his tenth failed attempt, she finally reached over.

She didn't correct his grip.

She didn't tell him where he went wrong.

Instead, she simply placed her own hand over his—steady, patient.

"Do not chase the stroke,**" she had murmured. "Let it find you."

Lex's fingers twitched, the memory so vivid it almost ached.

She had always let him figure things out himself. Always let him fall, knowing he would rise sharper.

And that was what he had been missing.

Not just technique. Not just accuracy.

The quiet, steady defiance of a woman who never needed to fight—but always won.

Lex opened his eyes.

The brush moved before he could think.

One clean, precise stroke. Then another.

A single, strong branch—dark, twisting, alive. The blossoms followed, small but resilient, pushing through winter's cold. The petals curled at the edges, caught in an unseen wind, but they did not break.

It was effortless. It was natural.

And for the first time, it felt right.

Lex sat back, ink still glistening on the page. His chest rose and fell in quiet satisfaction.

This was her.

His grandmother, in strokes of black and crimson.

Unshaken. Unmoved.

A winter bloom that refused to die.

Lex sat back, eyes locked on the finished painting.

It was his best work—not just technically, but in something deeper. The ink still glistened slightly, the strokes bold yet weightless. The perfect balance between strength and grace.

His grandmother would have approved.

Maybe even smiled.

Lex let out a slow breath, rubbing his thumb against his palm, smearing a faint trace of ink. It was done.

Then—

The doorbell rang.

Sharp. Clear. Cutting through the quiet like a single, deliberate stroke of the brush.

Lex frowned slightly, glancing at the clock. Late. Too late for unexpected guests.

He rose smoothly, moving through the house, wiping his hands clean as he reached the door. He pulled it open.

Professor Xu Jianhong stood on the threshold.

China's leading expert in traditional calligraphy. A man whose name carried weight in both academia and the art world. His presence alone was enough to shift a room.

Lex hadn't expected him with his schedule.

Yet here he was.

Dressed in a crisp dark Tang jacket, silver threading at the collar, his presence was composed, deliberate. His hands were folded neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable.

Lex straightened slightly. "Professor Xu."

The older man studied him for a moment, then gave a small, respectful nod.

"Ling Jun."

Lex's breath didn't hitch. But it almost did.

It had been years since anyone called him that.

Not since Mei Lei.

Lex held his gaze for a moment, then stepped aside. "Please, come in."

Professor Xu stepped over the threshold, moving with quiet, practiced grace.

He had missed the auction.

But he had still come.

To pay his respects.

To see him.