966-970

**Chapter 966: A Magical Experience**

Ah!

At this moment, on the surface, Karl was flipping through a newspaper, holding it high with both hands, using it to cover his face, pretending to seriously read the latest issue of *The Wall Street Journal*, much like a high-flying financial executive traveling between Europe and America.

Ah, ah, ah, ah!

However, in his mind, a tiny version of Karl was screaming in panic. A bunch of miniature Karls were running around frantically like headless chickens, their world turning upside down as they clutched their faces, feeling both excited and terrified by their own cries.

What could he do? What else could he do but scream?

Just then, the man on his left turned his head, his profile morphing into a full view, and in an instant, the screaming inside Karl's mind was cut off.

The man said, “Your newspaper is upside down, Mr. James Bond.”

Karl: “Ah!”

A scream, mixed with excitement and surprise, burst from his throat but was quickly stifled. Karl opened his mouth to scream silently.

His eyes widened, his heart raced, his palms were sweaty, and his knees trembled.

But none of that mattered, because Karl finally saw the face before him clearly—

Anson. The one and only Anson.

Honestly, Karl found it hard to imagine that anyone in this world could look like Anson.

There was no doubt—it was him.

Karl froze. His words, movements, brain, and heart—all froze, as if he were a glitchy character in a video game, his entire being turning into a mosaic.

The man’s lips curled into a slight smile. “You should try a martini.”

Karl blinked, “Shaken, not stirred.”

The movie line came out of his mouth instinctively.

The atmosphere eased immediately.

After saying it, Karl finally came to his senses a little. He smiled awkwardly at Anson and then quickly looked forward, staring stiffly ahead.

Slowly, gradually, feeling returned to his fingertips with a slight tingle, his brain began to turn again, albeit sluggishly.

So, what was going on?

Why was Anson in Amsterdam? While all of Europe and the U.S. were curious about Anson’s whereabouts, how did he suddenly appear here without a word?

Was Anson headed to New York to film *Spider-Man 2*?

Thoughts swarmed in his head.

Later, Karl wrote in his blog:

“At the time, I was so excited that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I couldn’t stop the flood of questions that poured out of me, no matter how hard I tried.

If I could, I would have loved to conduct an interview on the spot—

This was a one-on-one interview opportunity! For the next ten hours, we were going to be trapped in that airplane cabin with no way to escape, and I could’ve asked him all the burning questions on my mind. I could’ve seized my moment.

But I knew I couldn’t.

This wasn’t work time; it was his personal time and space. I know how much I hate discussing work during my downtime, and how much I crave to be left alone in my personal time. I figured Anson must feel the same way.

So, after hesitating again and again, I suppressed my impulse and only tentatively asked if I could take a picture with him.

Anson politely declined, but he was still kind and friendly enough to sign the *Elephant* movie poster and my personal movie journal.”

Karl included pictures in the blog post.

More than any words, those pictures spoke volumes.

Though there was no photo with Anson, the signed poster proved Karl’s extraordinary encounter was real—that man was indeed Anson.

But the story didn’t end there.

“…If it had ended there, I might’ve doubted myself, because from start to finish, that man never confirmed he was Anson Wood. Maybe he was just a regular guy who often got mistaken for Anson. He might’ve been too tired to correct me and simply signed Anson’s name to end the conversation. I accept all skepticism.

So, at best, I could say, ‘I might have run into Anson.’

But that’s not the whole story. The truly exciting part comes next.”

As a young person of the digital age, Karl knew how to turn his passions into a career through blogging, and he also understood the nature of online skepticism. He didn’t even wait for readers to nitpick—he presented a twist himself, leading the story in a new direction.

When readers came across his post, they were hooked.

“…Honestly, I’m not a fan of flying. It’s not quite a phobia, but every time the plane takes off, it’s torture. I have to close my eyes, pray, and grip the armrests with all my strength to get through that dreadful time.

I thought flying in business class would be better, but it wasn’t.

Next to me, Anson seemed to notice my fear—obviously, my death grip on the armrests gave me away. He kindly asked me if I was okay.

My first reaction was, ‘For the love of God, are you kidding me? Can’t you see that I’m barely holding myself together to avoid making a mess right here? And now you’re striking up a conversation? Why can’t you just leave me alone? I don’t care who you are! Or am I just terrified of making a fool of myself in front of the real Anson, so I’m doing everything I can to avoid a meltdown?’

But my fierce glare didn’t scare Anson off.

He asked again, ‘Did you enjoy Karlovy Vary?’

I must have dropped the official program for the Karlovy Vary Film Festival when I was rummaging through my bag for the *Elephant* poster.

Of course, I only figured this out later. At the time, I was too focused on controlling my bladder and maintaining whatever dignity I had left. I didn’t have the mental energy to think about it. Just processing Anson’s words was draining my last bit of strength.

As I was trying to figure out how to respond, Anson continued, ‘I really liked the Peter Greenaway retrospective.’

Wait, what? My DNA responded!

‘Shut up! You like Peter Greenaway too?’

‘To be precise, it was my first time discovering his visual and cinematic experiments. It’s a shame I only just found him.’

‘Shut up! Same here!’

‘At times, Greenaway’s staging feels a bit too theatrical, but no one can deny the charm of his experiments. The end result is always something mesmerizing, almost perfect.’

‘Shut up! I think so too!’

I realized I kept telling Anson to shut up, but I couldn’t help myself. I was too shocked and excited. I wasn’t sure whether I was more astonished by my own stupidity for not controlling my mouth, or by the unexpected turn this conversation had taken.”

**Chapter 967: First-Person Perspective**

Carl Rivet, a rising film blogger of the new generation.

With new media comes new ways of engaging with the audience, and naturally, the way news and reports are written differs greatly from traditional journalism.

Nicholas Flynn once wrote a similar feature in *The New York Times*, showing Anson's life away from the spotlight. However, as a writer for an established professional media outlet, Nicholas maintained a relatively objective and calm tone, avoiding any overly emotional depictions.

But Carl is different. His first-person narrative offers an immersive experience, where his personal reactions become the most vivid and lively colors in his writing. This type of storytelling allows readers to feel what he felt, infusing the article with a unique soul.

"...I didn’t understand what was happening, but the reality was, I should have been eager for Anson to speak, so I could sneak in an interview. Instead, I kept wanting him to stop talking, as if I was afraid that if he kept going, I might explode.

What’s even funnier is that my brain completely shut down at that moment. I just went along with Anson's flow, totally absorbed in the conversation.

Those internal thoughts? Nope, they didn’t exist.

Trust me, when you're with Anson Wood, you're not thinking about yourself, because your mind is entirely consumed by him.

Later, during a casual chat, I found out that after Anson finished his performance in Prague, he didn’t leave the Czech Republic but headed straight to the Karlovy Vary Film Festival.

And me, the fool, spent another week at the Karlovy Vary Film Festival after Cannes, attending screenings alongside Anson without ever noticing him.

'Why?' Clearly, Anson isn’t the type to blend into a crowd unnoticed.

'The main focus of a film festival should be the films. I’m glad people were talking about the movies and not some Hollywood outsider who thinks he knows everything and has the right to boss people around,' Anson said, playfully mocking himself.

When you hear Anson joke like that in person, you can’t help but be captivated by his charm. Believe me, his eyes seem to see straight into your soul.

It wasn’t until thirty minutes later that I realized Anson had started talking to me, not because he was bored or because I was irresistibly charming, but to help calm my nerves.

This was the most peaceful, stable, and smooth takeoff I’d ever experienced since boarding a plane. I didn’t even realize the hundred-ton metal bird was flying above the clouds because I was completely engrossed in Anson’s humor.

If all you see in Anson is his physical appearance, then you’ve missed 90% of his real charm.

I wanted to conduct a full interview, but I never got the chance. Still, in a way, I did—because Anson and I had a long conversation about films.

We discussed the controversies at Cannes, the challenges facing film festivals, and the relationship between art films and genre films.

I can’t say I agreed with everything he said. In fact, we had several heated arguments due to our differing opinions. But there’s no doubt his profound film knowledge and independent thinking opened my eyes again. Conversations like these always remind me of the good times at film festivals.

If you, dear readers, have made it this far and still don’t believe this man is Anson Wood, I won’t argue with you. You’re skeptics with your own beliefs, and I have mine. Let’s just agree to disagree.

I *believe* I met the real Anson. I *believe* I had an unforgettable experience."

With a light touch of humor, Carl effortlessly showcased his skill as a blogger. He knew he couldn’t convince everyone, but he didn’t mind. He was content with accepting that.

Because he knew he had met Anson.

The key point here is that Carl’s narrative style resonated deeply with readers, which is why this blog post gained so much attention.

"It was at that moment I truly realized that Anson Wood is an actor—a real actor.

It’s not just about his on-screen performances but also his thoughts on film, acting, art, and life. He has a unique perspective, something the vast majority of actors lack.

It’s hard to believe Anson is only twenty-one years old.

When the conversation ended, Anson politely said he needed to recharge after the film festival. In hindsight, that was his polite way of asking for some personal space, but at the time, I didn’t realize it. I was still caught up in the whirlwind of ideas that came from our deep conversation.

I sat there, dumbfounded, like an idiot, while my brain couldn’t stop racing with countless thoughts exploding like a fountain.

And in one sudden moment, I realized I was excited to see Anson perform as an actor.

I wondered what the *Pirates of the Caribbean* would look like with Anson in the lead, how his performance in *Chicago* would color the film, and what roles he would bring to life in his next projects, *Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind* and *The Butterfly Effect*.

Whenever I watch a great film, I’ll wonder how Anson would interpret and portray the characters.

Clearly, his personal charm had completely won me over.

But what about Anson?

'Go home, live like a regular person.' That’s Anson’s wish."

Full stop.

Carl ended his article in a slightly unusual way, but it was clear from his writing that he held nothing back in his admiration and respect for Anson.

In fact, Carl had already been deeply impressed by Anson back in Cannes. Although *Elephant* wasn’t his favorite film, there was no question that it deserved the Palme d’Or. Anson’s keen eye for selecting projects left a lasting impression, and now Carl’s opinion of him had skyrocketed.

There’s no denying it—the aura of a superstar is invisible yet undeniably real.

His heart raced with excitement.

Even though Carl had attended numerous film festivals and premieres, meeting countless top actors and directors, his heart still sped up whenever he encountered a superstar.

Is this what they call the allure of an idol?

By now, attentive readers may have noticed that Carl’s story…isn’t finished.

What happened next?

If Carl respected Anson’s personal space for the remainder of the flight, what happened when they landed? Did Anson slip out of the airport through the VIP entrance without alerting anyone? Is that why no media outlets reported on his arrival?

On that note, Anson’s arrival in New York went entirely unnoticed by the press. From his departure in Amsterdam to his landing in New York, everything was kept under wraps.

This is exactly why Carl’s blog post garnered such widespread attention and also sparked endless skepticism. Many questioned the authenticity of his story.

From all perspectives, Carl seems to be the only person to have witnessed Anson’s return to New York—at least, the only one who went public with it.

Is this real? Or is it just another case of internet hoaxes or fan fiction?

**Chapter 968: Epilogue**
Every story has an ending, just like every encounter eventually leads to a farewell.

Carl’s article tells the story of a meeting but omits the farewell, leaving a missing piece that has raised endless doubts about the article’s authenticity.

It seems Carl had anticipated this and prepared in advance, adding an epilogue to round things off with a twist.

For once, Carl hoped the flight could last a little longer, unlike the usual eagerness to land right after takeoff. This time was different.

During the entire flight, Carl felt jittery, sneaking glances at Anson every now and then, unable to believe everything that was happening. Despite telling himself repeatedly, “Don’t idolize Anson, don’t idolize Anson—he’s just a regular person, like me,” being in close proximity to Anson still felt surreal.

Thankfully, Anson slept most of the flight; otherwise, Carl might’ve driven himself into a nervous breakdown.

Finally, the long flight landed smoothly at JFK International Airport in New York, like waking up from a prolonged dream.

As the plane taxied on the ground, Anson and Carl casually exchanged movie memorabilia from the Cannes and Karlovy Vary film festivals. When Carl handed Anson a small film brochure from the Karlovy Vary International Film Festival, Anson was overjoyed and gratefully thanked him. In return, he reluctantly parted with a set of Cannes commemorative poster postcards, sealing their fan-to-fan exchange.

They continued until the plane came to a complete stop at the gate.

Truthfully, Carl had been curious about how Anson would make his exit. His first thought was that Anson might take a VIP route or even have a private car drive up to the tarmac, leaving discreetly before drawing any attention.

But Carl quickly dismissed this idea. The more extravagant the measures, the more attention they would draw.

Consider how Anson had quietly roamed around Europe, performing street gigs and attending the Karlovy Vary Film Festival without causing a stir. The secret was in his subtlety—true subtlety.

Nowadays, some Hollywood stars claim to live low-key lives, but they’re always surrounded by entourages and luxury cars, making them impossible to ignore. They go so far as to complain about their lack of privacy while practically begging for attention.

Anson, however, was different. He was truly discreet.

Carl couldn’t help but wonder how Anson planned to leave the airport unnoticed.

Anson made no special effort, simply pulling his hoodie over his head.

And… that was it. He wore no sunglasses, nothing else to conceal his identity. He was ready to depart, traveling light and unencumbered.

Once the plane docked, the passengers in business class were allowed to disembark first.

Carl hurriedly gathered his belongings. He glanced at Anson, who had effortlessly slung a backpack over his shoulder. It was then that Carl understood what it meant to travel light. Anson’s journey was even more streamlined than that of the typical business traveler.

Carl was reminded of the rumor that Mariah Carey traveled with 25 suitcases, calling it “traveling light.”

While Carl was lost in thought for a brief moment, Anson bent down and quietly slipped away.

From behind, his tall and lean figure stood out, but his face remained obscured. A fleeting glance sparked curiosity, but nothing conclusive, and soon he disappeared into the bustling crowd, unnoticed.

Carl thought to himself: *So, this is how Anson traveled across Europe?*

Like a backpacker.

In retrospect, Carl realized that this was likely the truth.

The simplicity of it allowed Anson to blend seamlessly into any crowd.

In the streets of Europe, figures like his are common, especially among Northern Europeans. Nobody would pay special attention. Even if someone took a second glance or their eyes met, they’d likely dismiss the notion that it was really him.

It was much like Keanu Reeves.

The Hollywood star was known for roaming the streets of Los Angeles or New York, without sunglasses, hats, or any form of disguise. His presence was so normal that no one noticed him.

Thus, Hollywood’s hottest superstar could walk down the street, blending into the crowd without attracting any attention.

While journalists scoured every corner trying to track down Anson, the man himself might be in the crowd, casually watching the spectacle unfold.

It sounded unbelievable, but this might have been the best ending.

Carl understood that in theory; but when it truly sank in, the shock and disbelief were overwhelming. He was left frozen in place, astonished—

Could someone explain how Anson Wood managed to do it?

Carl’s thoughts raced as he hurried to follow. This time, however, he didn’t get too close. Instead, he kept a respectful distance, as if guarding Anson like a bodyguard.

His eyes and ears stayed alert.

Carl was constantly on edge, monitoring the surroundings to ensure no one noticed Anson’s presence. The airport was packed with people, and Carl couldn't imagine what kind of chaos might ensue if Anson were recognized.

The tension was palpable, and Carl’s heart raced.

From his pocket, Carl pulled out his digital camera and stealthily aimed it at Anson’s back—

Click.

The photo, to be honest, didn’t reveal much. It was just a hoodie-clad figure, an upper-body shot that didn’t even clearly indicate gender. It could’ve been anyone in the world.

Still, Carl snapped the picture as a keepsake.

When netizens questioned the authenticity of the story, Carl left a comment as a postscript and attached the photo, bringing closure to this encounter.

“…I maintained a two-step distance, pretending to be a bodyguard. I followed Anson all the way to customs and watched as he approached the counter.

At customs, Anson took off his hoodie, revealing his face.

The officer recognized him instantly. ‘Oh, Anson Wood.’

Clearly, his passport information confirmed his identity.

Anson responded, ‘Yes.’

The officer smiled, ‘I really like Spider-Man.’

Anson chuckled. ‘Thank you!’

Officer: ‘Welcome back to New York.’

Anson: ‘Have a great day.’

He put his hoodie back on and walked off.

Before I knew it, the customs officer called for ‘Next!’ I rushed forward and passed through without issue. But by the time I reached baggage claim, Anson was already gone.

He didn’t check any luggage.

From Amsterdam to New York, all Anson carried was a small backpack, like he was just heading off to school.

Staring at the bustling baggage claim, I still felt like I was in a dream, struggling to believe that any of it really happened.”

Only then did the story truly come to an end.

**Chapter 969: Immersive Experience**

The extra chapter has ended.

In the epilogue, Karl Rivette verifies Anson’s identity through customs, but for the online fans, that still wasn’t enough.

However, as Karl said, he didn’t care and wasn’t about to argue—

Skeptics and conspiracy theorists always have endless ways to defend themselves. Once entangled in their disputes, it can be impossible to escape.

For Karl, this experience was both wonderful and fulfilling. He got to know Anson again—not as a box office king, not as a historical figure, not as someone painted by the media or imagined by die-hard fans, but as a real person he carefully observed through his own eyes. He saw the truth behind the illusions, a flesh-and-blood ordinary person.

An actor, but more importantly, a film lover.

Clearly, after the European street tour and Cannes experience, Anson’s image was quietly changing, which was all that mattered to Karl.

However, Karl didn’t anticipate that his article would go viral.

And there was no stopping it.

In the midst of the lively discussions, a particular photo became the focal point.

Karl: ??? Why?

Karl couldn’t understand why there was so much fuss over a photo of a back view. The picture revealed no information, so what was there to discuss?

Soon, Karl realized he had been naive.

“This is Anson Wood!”

Fans began their analysis—

First, they dissected the hoodie. This was a NASA collaboration hoodie that Anson had worn during his Munich street tour.

Then they analyzed the backpack, a Norwegian outdoor brand that Anson carried throughout his European street travels. It appeared frequently in photos.

Next, they scrutinized the back of his head, the shape of his shoulders and arms, and his upper body posture as he walked. Fans examined every detail with a metaphorical microscope, even writing fan fiction based on their own interpretations.

The most unbelievable part? Some fans found a reflection on the left-side billboard, zoomed in, and managed to extract a blurred silhouette of a face, confirming that it was indeed Anson.

They all turned into Sherlock Holmes, not missing a single minute detail, showcasing the same investigative energy used to catch a cheating boyfriend. Ultimately, they unanimously concluded:

This *is* Anson.

Karl was stunned. The fans had taught him quite the lesson.

Never underestimate the internet.

However, not all fans were convinced. The more some analyzed, the more stubbornly others refused to believe it.

The debate raged on.

Hours later, TMZ published a New York street photo—

"Anson Wood arrives in New York."

In this photo, Anson’s outfit perfectly matched the one in Karl's photo, down to the smallest detail. What’s more, it was taken on the very same day that Karl and Anson arrived in New York. TMZ confirmed that Anson had returned to the city from Europe to prepare for filming *Spider-Man 2*, indirectly validating Karl’s article.

Instantly, the controversy evaporated into silence—

But in the age of social media, some voices never fully disappear.

Wow!

What replaced the controversy was astonishment and admiration. Fans went wild.

No one had expected Karl’s experience to be entirely true!

Involuntarily, people started imagining what it would be like to run into Anson themselves. Whether in a café, a supermarket, or on the street, the fantasies grew, and their imaginations took flight, never to land.

Even Karl was caught off guard—

Originally, he had only recorded an unforgettable, magical experience, but it unexpectedly became the postscript of the Cannes Film Festival. It not only filled in the gaps regarding Anson’s whereabouts after his street tour but also extended the spirit of the festival, perfectly concluding Anson’s three-month journey across Europe.

This was something Eve hadn’t foreseen either.

But it worked out well. She capitalized on the momentum, pushing forward, continuing to build Anson’s personal brand.

Eve was rubbing her hands in excitement; she loved surprises like this.

But what about the person at the center of it all?

…

In Manhattan, New York, the city remained busy and noisy as always, the constant hustle never slowing down. The streets were packed with people rushing about, everyone seemingly too busy to stop and take a look around.

Yet, there were exceptions.

In this city where every inch of space was precious, there were still quiet corners where the clamor was kept at bay and time itself seemed to slow down—

Creating space for art to quietly blossom.

Unlike Europe, with its long, rich history, North America’s history is relatively short, lacking the time to develop a deep artistic heritage. Instead, this land embraces the present, allowing modern art to flourish.

Because of this, the Metropolitan Museum of Art gathers global attention.

Beyond the Met, small galleries and art studios abound in places like Greenwich Village, the Upper West Side, and the East Village, giving artists a space to showcase their work.

At that moment, on a lazy afternoon, Nora Wood was busy in one such gallery in the East Village—

The weather was a bit gloomy, with thick clouds blocking the golden June sun. The entire city was cloaked in shadow, though it didn’t feel any cooler. Instead, the air was heavy and oppressive, making it tempting to brew a pot of tea to chase away the muggy, humid atmosphere.

Before Nora was the culmination of four months of hard work, the result of a new exhibition that had opened three weeks ago.

It was a city space exhibit, featuring young artists expressing their interpretations of urban spaces and how modern youth navigate these environments through their artwork.

In 2003, this was considered a very trendy and fresh art theme.

Though urban space has always been a topic of artistic exploration, it had never really gained traction. In recent years, a new wave of interest had emerged, with artists eager to explore the relationship between individuals and the cities they live in. But in terms of market reception, it still hadn’t attracted widespread attention—

People were simply uninterested.

To Nora, though, this was a theme worth exploring.

After years of focusing on classical art, Nora yearned for a new challenge. So, she took on this project, which no one else wanted to touch, almost as a charitable endeavor.

But now...

The gallery was practically empty.

Nora was frustrated as she gazed out at the young people passing by, all in short sleeves, tank tops, skirts, and sandals, their youthful energy on full display. Yet none of them stopped at the gallery door.

Back when choosing the exhibit’s location, Nora’s first instinct was to go with the Upper West Side—

An area filled with elites and middle-class professionals who loved to enrich their lives with art. Nora could have easily opened doors with her connections.

But she soon realized that would just put her back on the same track. It would be the same art, in the same space, aimed at the same people.

That wouldn’t be a true challenge.

So, Nora overturned her own idea and completely restructured the project, ultimately choosing the East Village, where young art thrived.

But now?

**Chapter 970: Creating a Scandal**

Nora Wood stood in the center of the gallery, looking around, reassessing her work—

So, had she miscalculated?

Other than the opening night, which had been packed, the gallery had lost its buzz, becoming deserted. No visitors, let alone sales.

Was this due to poor promotion, a misstep in positioning, or perhaps the curation itself lacked appeal?

Failure isn't scary. What's scary is going through failure and not learning from it, then facing the same challenge again only to fail once more.

Besides, this wasn’t a failure just yet. There was still a week left until the exhibition ended.

There was still time.

That’s why Nora had come to the gallery today—to reevaluate her work—

Starting with the positioning, she decided to completely rethink the exhibition.

Art exhibitions have many considerations: layout, lighting, arrangement, and so on. The entire experience is immersive, aiming to make visitors feel the power of the art.

A classic example is the Musée de l'Orangerie in Paris, a very small museum where the most famous piece is Claude Monet’s *Water Lilies*.

The exhibition hall is shaped like an oval, and *Water Lilies* unfolds like a continuous scroll along the walls, taking up three-quarters of the space. The result is that no matter where you stand, you feel surrounded by the artwork. From different angles, you can appreciate different aspects of it, creating the illusion that you are stepping inside the painting. This effect perfectly showcases the masterpiece, earning the gallery the title of "The Sistine Chapel of Impressionist Art."

Now, Nora was reexamining the arrangement of her own pieces.

Strolling from the outer edge inward, Nora fully immersed herself in her work.

Rustle, rustle—

A low, muffled sound came from outside, causing Nora to frown slightly. But she didn’t turn to investigate. This was one of the prices of choosing to hold an exhibition in the East Village.

Here, the young crowd was large, with hip-hop, graffiti, and street poets, all eager to challenge traditional art forms.

Noise, in a sense, was part of the art, a rebellion against conventional exhibitions.

In fact, this was one of the reasons Nora had chosen this location—to spark discussion, encouraging young artists to speak their minds boldly. A diversity of voices was the weapon that advances art.

So Nora continued her assessment.

However, the sounds outside grew louder, becoming hard to ignore.

Was someone causing trouble?

Nora remained calm, not rushing out, though the gallery staff didn’t share her composure. One of them came running up to her.

“Nora,” they whispered urgently.

Nora looked over.

“You might want to come out and see this.”

Nora asked, “What’s going on?”

“Just come and see.” Without waiting for her response, the staff member hurried back outside.

Nora took a deep breath, composed herself, and walked out.

Rounding a corner from the back hall to the front, she immediately saw the figure—

Tall and lean, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. He stood in front of a painting near the entrance, examining it closely.

He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just standing there—but somehow, he naturally drew attention.

One person. There was only one person in the front gallery. No rebellious young artists barging in, no picky rappers causing a scene—just one solitary figure.

The gallery’s three staff members had gathered together like prairie dogs, unable to contain their excitement despite their best efforts. Their hushed rustling had been the source of the noise.

Outside the gallery, two young girls were pressed up against the glass, trying to listen in. Their faces and body language were bursting with excitement, adding energy to the gloomy weather outside.

At some point, the sky had cleared a bit.

A ray of golden sunlight broke through the clouds, streaming down past the tall buildings, brightening the street outside the gallery. The world was still overcast, but that single shaft of light made everything outside seem to glow.

The light seeped gently into the gallery.

Quiet yet lively.

Nora froze, caught off guard, totally unprepared for what she saw. “Anson?”

The man turned around, his lips curving into a smile that reached his bright eyes. The buzz in the gallery fell silent as his deep gaze took center stage, illuminating the space.

“Hey, darling Nora.”

He opened his arms and gave Nora a warm hug.

Huh.

The entire gallery froze in shock, unable to believe their eyes—

What were they seeing? What was going on? Was this some kind of sensational news?

Nora, however, had no time to care about the gawking eyes. She warmly returned Anson's hug. “When did you get back? Why didn’t you go straight home?”

Anson chuckled lightly. “I did, but I didn’t have my key.”

It took a second for Nora to remember, “Oh, Judy had to go to Boston for a week. I totally forgot about that.”

Anson spread his hands, “So, I was locked out. I called Luca, and he said you might be here, so I came to try my luck.”

Nora shook her head, a hint of exasperation in her eyes. “You could’ve just called me.”

Anson smiled, “But then it wouldn’t have been as fun. It wouldn’t be the surprise it is now!”

As he spoke, he raised his hands to mimic a “surprise” gesture.

Nora looked at her sunshine-filled youngest son and couldn’t help but smile, her lips curling into a soft, beautiful arc. “A surprise, yes, indeed.”

“Ah, let go of me! I’ve got the flu. Don’t want to pass it on to you—then it’d be a problem.”

The joy settled in, and Nora hastily covered her mouth, stepping back.

Anson looked a bit concerned, “Getting sick in summer? That’s not good.”

Nora waved her hand, “It’s just the flu. A lot of people around me have caught it. I was actually thinking of getting a vaccine, but I guess it’s too late.”

After just a few words, Nora turned back to Anson and gave him a once-over, “You look thinner.”

Anson couldn’t believe his ears, “You say that every time we meet. I’m beginning to doubt your eyesight. Trust me, I haven’t lost any weight.”

Nora shook her head helplessly, “You’re such a tease. My eyesight’s fine.”

“No need for reading glasses?”

“Anson!”

Anson obediently zipped his lips and raised his hands in surrender, then turned to look at the painting near the entrance. “How much is this one?”

Nora knew he was changing the subject on purpose and didn’t say anything, just quietly watched him.

Anson, catching her look, said with mock seriousness, “I’m serious. Can’t you see how serious I am? I’m a customer now, aren’t I? A customer of the gallery.”

Nora couldn’t hold back a chuckle, her smile blooming brightly. She played along, “So, dear customer, is there anything I can help you with?”