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When the fragrance of wisteria spread through the third summer rain, Su Xiangwan discovered that the light in Lin Yanzhi's canvas had been gnawed out by something. He once said that the silver chain on her earlobe should be equipped with a brighter bracelet, and that the tiger teeth of her smile should be drawn under the wisteria frame into the canvas of the national competition - those promises softened by the chirping of cicadas, like sketch paper soaked in water, suddenly shed ink marks one afternoon. The door of the art room was always closed when she approached. The red mark on his collarbone was hidden behind his collar. The lily of the valley embroidery thread on Wen Yining's white skirt and the unfinished portrait in his painting tube made tiny sounds in the dusk. The oxidized patina of the silverware crept up on the appointed day. He squatted in front of the scattered exercise books, his fingertips trembling like wisteria flowers in the autumn wind. "Light toward the evening" was once written on the corner of his drawing paper, but now it has become a mystery hidden at the bottom of the palette: is it the white skirt he is protecting that smells of medicine, or is it that the lotus flowers in Weiming Lake have bloomed in the wrong season from the beginning? When the broken light spreads across the easel, someone is always asking: In which piece of faded paint did the young man who said he wanted to polish silverware hide his sincerity?