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墨書 Inktalez
The roar of the air conditioning unit was particularly jarring in the cramped office. Lin Xiaofan stared at the cup of tea in front of him, now completely cold, the tea leaves unfurling slowly at the bottom like some mysterious symbol. Opposite him, Old Zhou carefully retrieved a roll of canvas from his faded briefcase.
"Be careful, I just finished this last week," the old man said, his thickened and deformed knuckles surprisingly nimble as he untied the string.
The moment the canvas unfurled, Lin Xiaofan's breath caught in his throat. The image depicted a homeless man curled up beneath an overpass, his gray-white hair and wrinkles etched with years of hardship, yet his eyes shone with an unexpected brightness—it was the same Alzheimer's patient Lin Xiaofan had once helped.
"This..." he reached out to touch the painting but quickly withdrew his hand. "How do you know him?"
"I’ve been painting street characters for forty years," Old Zhou said, gently wiping the frame with his sleeve. "This old fellow's surname is Chen; he fought in the Korean War, and later... well, his mind isn’t quite right anymore." The old man suddenly looked up and locked eyes with Lin Xiaofan. "Until one day, he told me about a kind young man who bought him a bowl of hot porridge."
Lin Xiaofan felt his ears burn. That night, he had merely acted on impulse and hadn’t even asked for the old man's name.
Old Zhou continued to unveil more paintings: a young mother begging while cradling her baby, a veteran singing on the street after losing both legs, a mentally challenged boy rummaging through trash bins... Each painting bore a date and a brief description of its subject, with the earliest dating back twenty years.
"I can give you three hundred thousand," Lin Xiaofan blurted out. "No, fifty thousand!"
Old Zhou shook his head. "I don’t want donations." He pointed to the figures in the paintings. "They don’t need charity either. What I want is—" The old man pulled out a yellowed album from the side pocket of his wheelchair and flipped to a certain page. "Opportunities like this."
The photo showed a humble art studio where several disabled individuals were focused on painting. In one corner were neatly packaged handicrafts, and on the wall hung a faded banner reading "Self-Reliance Art Society."
"We started it in '98 and kept it going for six years," Old Zhou said, pride seeping into his voice. "We taught twenty-seven people to earn a living through their skills; the most successful one, Xiao Wang, now runs an art gallery." His finger traced over smiling faces in the photos. "But then they demolished our space; we couldn’t afford to move..."
Silence fell over the office. Outside, a dry leaf was lifted by the wind and slapped against the glass before slowly sliding down.
"I have an idea," Lin Xiaofan suddenly stood up. "Let’s hold an art exhibition called 'Streetlight,' selling your paintings to raise funds for the homeless. All proceeds will go towards vocational training and entrepreneurship funds, managed entirely by you."
[New project evaluation in progress...]
[Art charity model confirmed]
[Estimated return multiplier: 300%]
[Note: Respect is more precious than money]
The system notification made Lin Xiaofan's pupils constrict—300% was the highest return rate he had ever seen!
Old Zhou looked at him skeptically. "You philanthropists always prefer to spend money on children, don’t you? Homeless people aren’t exactly newsworthy."
"Exactly because no one pays attention that they need help even more," Su Yuqing's voice came from the doorway as she entered with two cups of hot tea, handing one to Old Zhou. "Teacher Zhou, our Weiguang Public Welfare is willing to take on this project that no one else will."
Old Zhou’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted the teacup. He gazed out the window at a vacant pant leg fluttering in the sunlight. "Ten years ago, I taught a few homeless kids how to paint... One of them was particularly talented." The old man suddenly coughed. "Then he was 'sponsored' by Zhao Foundation to study abroad and I never heard from him again..."
"The Zhao Foundation?" Lin Xiaofan and Su Yuqing asked in unison.
Old Zhou waved his hand dismissively and pulled out an old painting tube from beneath his wheelchair. "These are my recent works; take a look."
In the two weeks leading up to the exhibition, Lin Xiaofan practically lived at the exhibition hall. The three hundred thousand in startup funds, under Old Zhou's meticulous management, yielded astonishing results—he personally selected a nearly bankrupt old gallery as the venue, which had a low rent but an excellent location; the volunteers recruited were all street performers who had previously received assistance; even the flyers were printed on recycled paper.
"Where should I put this, Director Lin?"
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