Eddie fumbled with the plastic bag, the kind sealed so tightly it seemed designed to preserve secrets. But that tight seal had served its purpose—inside, the paintings were pristine, untouched by time or moisture. With a gentle hand, he unfolded the first piece. It was a delicate pencil sketch of a poplar forest. The trees swayed gracefully across the paper, captured mid-motion, as if caught in the act of whispering to one another. The breeze wasn't there, but somehow you could feel it. The artist had breathed life into graphite, turning stillness into movement.
Eddie's first instinct was to check for a signature. He looked in the bottom corner, expecting a grand name—a master, a legend. Instead, there were just three small letters: "A.A.P.""Who the hell is A.A.P.?" Eddie muttered under his breath, curiosity piqued but not yet stirred to excitement.
He flipped through several more paintings, one after another. Landscapes bathed in autumn golds, snowy streets rendered in watercolor, abstract swirls of oil that seemed to speak a language just out of reach. Finally, in one corner of a particularly dramatic ink drawing, he found the full name: Arthur Ashod Pinajian.
Eddie blinked. He had never heard of him. Not in any art class, not on any museum plaque, not even in passing conversation. Definitely not someone from the pantheon of artistic immortals. For a moment, disappointment tugged at his enthusiasm.That is, until he turned to the next painting.
It was a vibrant comic-style portrait of a red-haired woman, her features exaggerated yet compelling, her eyes almost too alive to be fictional. Her fiery hair seemed to crackle with attitude. The art style was bold, unapologetic, dynamic—straight out of a vintage graphic novel.
"She's gorgeous," Eddie murmured. "And this guy's got skills."
There was no denying it—Pinajian, whoever he was, knew how to draw. This wasn't the messy doodling of a hobbyist. This was professional-grade, with soul. Even so, Eddie couldn't shake the thought:Picasso never drew comics. Van Gogh didn't sketch superheroes. Monet didn't dabble in pin-ups.
So who was this guy?
He laid out all the artwork on the wooden floor. Over twenty paintings—landscapes, portraits, sketches, abstract bursts of emotion, and comic panels. A true chameleon. Each one bore Pinajian's signature. A man of many styles and perhaps, many lives.
Just as Eddie was about to give up on finding anything truly special, he unfolded the final painting—and time stopped.
It was a field of blazing sunflowers.
The blossoms erupted from the canvas like golden fireballs, each petal stroked with such precision and fervor it felt like the painting was alive—sunlight distilled onto canvas.And then he saw it.
A small inscription in the bottom corner:"To my wandering life, Vincent Willem Van Gogh."
Eddie's breath caught in his throat.
That name. That style. That overwhelming passion in the brushwork. There was no mistaking it.
This… this might be a Van Gogh.
His heart raced. He tried to stay calm, but excitement surged through him like electricity. He vaguely recalled reading that Van Gogh had created multiple versions of Sunflowers. Some were well-known. Others? Lost to history.
Could this be one of them?
Fumbling for his phone, Eddie attempted to search online. But the rural signal in town was atrocious. Every refresh brought the same mocking message: No connection.
Ten minutes passed. Nothing.
Frustrated, Eddie made a decision. He dialed a number—one of the few friends he could trust with something this outrageous.
In Canada, it was late afternoon. In China, it was barely dawn.
A groggy voice answered. "D*mn it, Eddie, who calls at this hour?"
"Shut up and listen," Eddie snapped. "I need you to look something up—fast. I think I just found a Van Gogh. Like, a real one."
"Pffft," came the reply. "You think you can just stumble onto a masterpiece like it's a lottery ticket?"
"Check Sunflowers. How many versions did he paint? What do they look like? Just do it, Xueqiang! If it's real, I'll buy you a Bumblebee!"
"Bumblebee? Screw that—I want a Grand Cherokee!"
"Fine! I'll buy you twenty! You can form a convoy, driving S-shaped, B-shaped—hell, even G-shaped! Now look it up!"
Amused but now fully awake, Gao Xueqiang sighed and booted up his computer. Moments later, the clicking of keys came through the call.
Within minutes, he messaged back the details.
Van Gogh had painted 24 different versions of Sunflowers. Some were well-known, displayed in the Van Gogh Museum or private European collections. Others were referenced only in letters to his brother, Theo. The twelve sunflowers often symbolized Christ's apostles, and the total of 14 versions corresponded with the members of his Southern France artist collective, including himself and Theo.
Eddie stared at the painting again. Could it really be one of the missing ones?
Hope surged through him. Maybe this wasn't just some forgotten attic artwork. Maybe it was history.
Shaking with anticipation, he turned his attention to the large wooden chest beside the paintings. It looked important. Heavy. He lifted the lid with great care, praying for more masterpieces.
But his heart dropped.
Inside was just a single, tarnished bronze statue.
It was over a meter tall—an imposing young warrior, muscular and resolute. In one hand, he held a gleaming knife; in the other, a severed head. His stance was victorious, one foot planted on a fallen foe.A powerful piece… but damaged.
Years of water exposure had left the bronze surface pitted and green. The oak chest had once been waterproofed, but time had eroded every safeguard.
Eddie winced. "Not even worth selling for scrap metal."
He carried it to the window and placed it on the sill. At least it made a good conversation piece.
By now, night had blanketed the countryside. Eddie called Creeper.
"Old man," he said with a grin, "I'm not coming back to the inn tonight. I'm staying at the fishery. And listen—when you come by tomorrow, bring coffee. I found something. Something big."
Creeper checked in on Eddie's health, then hung up, reassured.
Eddie tested the water and electricity—miraculously, both still worked. After a quick rinse and a change of clothes, he settled into the fishery house. He was finally moved in. Tomorrow, he'd organize everything properly and begin unraveling the mystery behind the paintings.
For dinner, he headed to the town's only supermarket. Small but surprisingly well-stocked—it had seafood, meats, fresh vegetables, and even imported spices. But something struck Eddie as odd.
Despite the lake being teeming with fish—grass carp, koi, crucian, and snakeheads—none of them were for sale here.
Shrugging, Eddie had an idea. He picked up garlic, ginger, chili, and other seasonings, then headed to Sunken Treasure Lake.
Borrowing the innkeeper's old pickup, he arrived just as dusk turned to night. When he reached the shoreline, he extended his awareness into the water.
Immediately, a shimmering koi fish over half a meter long swam past.
Eddie reached out with his consciousness. To his surprise, the koi calmed instantly, letting itself be carried by the current to the shallows. It was like the fish was obeying him.
This… this was power.
Back at the fishery, he filleted only a portion of the large fish—just enough for stir-fry and a simple soup. The rest, he kept in the lake's cooler water.
The taste was unbelievable. Delicate, silky, utterly different from anything he'd had in China. This was nature's finest.
Full and content, Eddie started getting ready for bed.
Then he noticed something outside the window.
A squirrel.
Small, gray, and curious. It sat on the sill, tapping its tiny head gently against the glass, staring in at him like an old friend.
Eddie chuckled.
"Looks like I'm not the only one settling in tonight."