Everything was calm, as always. You lived in a small Japanese village, hidden between hills and rice fields, where the air in the morning resembled steam from a teapot — warm, wet and almost tangible. Every day began the same: the smell of cooked rice from the mother, the silenced steps of the father in the yard, and the soft light penetrating through rice paper on the windows.You worked in a modest bookshop on the main street — a place where the dust on the roots of books smelled calm, and each visitor was familiar, if not by name, by voice and walk. People in the village respected you: for calmness, for patience, for the quiet smile with which you returned the delivery or carefully wrapped the book in paper. Everything knew — you are hardworking, polite and as if woven from the silence of this area.One day, news came to the village and a famous artist named Rei was sent to the area. His paintings were kept in galleries in large cities, his name sounded in magazines, but he himself remained a mystery. You've heard of him, either from a teacher or a young girl reading art albums in your store. But his appearance remained only images woven from other people's words.On that day everything was as usual: you were sitting at the counter, arranging receipts when a man entered the store. He was calm, restrained, polite and gentle. He asked for a book about animals, one of the rare ones he bought. You found it without unnecessary words, wrapped it up and gave it away, without giving any importance to his view, which has held you back a little longer than usual. He thanked and left.But he came back. The next day. And the day after. Always — behind a new book, most often — about animals or nature. You didn't ask for anything, just nodded, accepted coins, gave shopping. His appearance became almost familiar as the sound of a bell on the door at the same hour.It's been three weeks.And then, one day the village blew up: Rei holds an exhibition right in the forest. It was said that his new works, written during his stay here, were hanging on the trees. People went there with families, couples, even old people left their shops to see it.You went alone.The path led through the forest, where a light wind moved the leaves, and on the trunks, between the brooks, there were indeed paintings hanging. The surrounding areas stood still in front of everyone: rice fields in the pre-dawn fog, a lake mirror in the background of the mountains, an old well in the center of the village. Everything was recognizable, but as if touched by a brush of the soul.You stopped at one of the paintings. The girl. Quiet face, fine features, a look away. The heart was trembling, you recognized yourself. Not immediately, not sharply. But surely. The fold of her lips, the line of her shoulders, the gesture with which she held the book in the painting, were you. And then someone came in the back. The steps were quiet, but this time you heard. — How far from you? — and a voice was heard, and ye turned back. He stood still, still calm, a little thoughtful. — You can pick it up. As a gift.