Chapter 156 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Chapter 156 (2) - The Mysterious Art Museum

Dear Junghoon,

Thinking that people who dislike me are foolish for not knowing my many strengths,

Does it really make me feel better? Bullshit, why the hell do they dislike me.

I'll dislike them too, those bastards.

How's your mental health?

Make sure the island wind doesn't blow you away. Hold onto your pant legs.

The hardest thing to handle in life is the imagination based on anxiety.

I'll be coming down soon.

Prepare a table with wild rockfish and makgeolli.

- From Youngju at Artist Company.

Sitting on a rock sofa in the art museum for the first time in a while, laughing loudly as I read Youngju's reply with Van Gogh's paintings and grand music as my companions,

"Hahaha!!"

Youngju's replies always make me laugh.

"At first, he complained about my handwritten letters being too mushy."

Since the day I started drawing properly, I have written letters every day. To Youngju, to Mom, to my brother. Though my brother probably needs Mom to read them to him.

My brother sent replies with Mom's help. Same for Mom.

My brother responded with the help of my mom. Mom did the same.

But Yeong-ju just cursed me over text, asking why I would send such a thing.

I found his reaction amusing, so I sent more letters, and now I get replies like this.

With a tearful smile, I carefully read Yeong-ju's letter again and folded it neatly into my pocket.

"Nice."

The reason I started writing letters was actually due to the influence of Van Gogh, whom I watch in my dreams.

I didn't know that these handwritten letters, which I once thought were trivial, could bring such simple joy and happiness. I plan to write them more often.

I waited for the painting that would pull me into the dream, lost in thought.

"That Yong-han, I didn't expect him to cling and suck up to me like this."

Initially, I thought he was just trying to ride the coattails of the newfound popularity of a new artist, Painter A, who was trending on SNS.

But when I looked up his posts, they were unexpectedly filled with pure admiration.

He even posted my paintings on his SNS and was generous with his praise.

Looking at the gradually rising stars in the night sky, I prepared to enter my dream. And as always, the dream brings me dizziness, pulling me somewhere.

The tinnitus that troubles my ears.

The dizziness that seems to make me fall at any moment.

A feeling that should be familiar by now, but never is.

My senses slowly come to life, and I start hearing sounds around me.

"Can you check me out here?"

"80 francs, sir."

The sound of coins, counting bills. The owner opening the cash drawer, the bell on the door ringing. Various sounds rush in all at once.

I stagger a bit, clutching my head.

A place I've been to countless times over the past year, watching Van Gogh.

And a place I've visited in person.

This is the Ravoux Inn.

The cleanly shaven innkeeper in neat attire is attending to guests in the dining room on the first floor.

The dining room, accessible not just to guests, sees many patrons. Judging by the sun outside, it seems to be around lunchtime. Hence, there are quite a few guests.

More people seem to be leaving than arriving, indicating that lunchtime is almost over.

I looked around for Van Gogh but couldn't see him. My gaze then turned towards the stairs leading upstairs.

"He should have already left by this time."

Van Gogh usually leaves the inn around 7 AM, so he must be walking somewhere looking for a place to paint or already sitting somewhere painting.

"Where should I go to find him?"

Initially, it was daunting, but now it doesn't concern me much. The town is very small, and as a fellow artist, finding a good spot for painting wasn't too difficult.

Then, I hear a customer who was settling the bill asking the owner something.

"Ah, sorry, but what's the date today?"

The owner, seemingly not too concerned with the date himself, checks the calendar before answering.

"Today is July 27th, sir."

Hearing this, I followed the customer who had opened the door to leave the inn. But the owner's words made me stop in my tracks, my eyes trembling.

'July 27, 1880. The day Van Gogh passed away.'

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