Chapter 8

After the scandal had settled, Ian came to see me in private. He asked me to enter the competition again and show my real work.

"The university owes you a gold award," he said quietly, "and I owe you an apology."

I shook my head. "Professor, that award means nothing to me now."

Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, I smiled and took something out of my backpack. It was a sketchbook, old and a little worn at the edges.

I handed it to him.

Before the finals, I had bought a plane ticket to a remote highland region. I stayed there alone for half a month.

I didn't paint a single finished artwork.

I walked. I watched. I sensed.

Then, I put everything I saw into this sketchbook with the simplest lines.

Ian opened the first page.

It showed a pilgrim from the highlands bowing down on the road. Just a few strokes carved the faith and the years into his face.

He kept turning the pages.

An old man, praying beside a totem.

Children running and laughing below snow-covered peaks.

A mou