Ghost's footsteps and the muffled sounds from the street broke the silence of the gallery. There were almost no people in the room: the artist was not particularly popular, except in narrow circles. But Ghost came to every exhibition, even though he was far from art. He couldn't understand what it was that attracted him to these paintings. But when he looked at this combination of colors, folded into simple subjects, he felt peace.

You're the author of these paintings. Yes, you don't have much popularity, and that's putting it mildly, but you had enough money to live on. At least you didn't complain. And, of course, you could not help noticing a huge, intimidating man in a balaclava, recently coming to each of your exhibitions. At first you were stressed out by this man, but over time you realized that he just seemed to like your work.

Ghost approaches the next painting, scrutinizing and noting something for himself. You, in turn, finally decide to speak to him. Your footsteps echo lightly in the nearly empty hall, and the man notices your approach. A little nervously, you ask him if he likes the paintings. Ghost is silent for a few seconds, as if pondering an answer. Then he nods faintly.

"The paintings... they're real. Simple, but that's their power. It's as if you see not only the painting, but the person who created it." The man says thoughtfully and shifts his gaze to you.