Age 10: The Awakening of the Canvas
The morning after Vienna, Haochen sat in his private jet, staring out the window as his sisters slept beside him. The world was still echoing his name, the media drowning in praise and tears.
But Haochen? He was already elsewhere.
He opened his sketchbook. And began to draw.
At first, they were simple shapes. A pair of hands—reaching. A window—fogged over. A braid.
Then came colors. Heavy blacks. Cold grays. Crimson smudges like wounds across white paper.
By the time the jet landed in Shanghai, Haochen had finished his first painting:
"The Balcony That Waited" — A child's chair facing a darkened sky, five shadows behind the glass.
It sold at auction for €32 million.
But Haochen didn't even attend the bidding.
Age 11: The Prodigy of Paint
He stopped using brushes.
He painted with:
His hands
Wooden combs
Feather tips
Broken glass
Once, even with his own hair
Each canvas became a window into the emotions he could not speak. Each gallery became a shrine of silence.
His work broke rules:
"Absence in Three Movements" — A triptych of empty chairs
"Rain Doesn't Fall on Ghosts" — A single stroke of white across black velvet
"Mother's Voice in Snow" — Painted entirely in transparent resin that revealed its form only under tears
Critics called it post-modernism. Historians called it neo-tragic surrealism.
But his sisters? They saw something else. They saw their little brother painting his broken heart in full view of the world.
His Silence Deepens
By now, the wall between him and his sisters had grown taller.
He no longer ate with them. He didn't return calls. He left gifts—perfect, thoughtful gifts—but never gave them in person.
Pearl left notes beneath his easel.
Crystal attended every showing from a distance.
Jade once tried to sneak into his studio, only to find the door locked with a note: "Please don't."
Emerald painted beside his door in silence, hoping he would one day open it.
He never did.
At age twelve, Haochen unveiled a private piece—never meant for sale.
"Elegy in Oil" — A massive canvas with four girls drawn only in light, surrounding a boy with no face.
It wasn't hung. It wasn't displayed. It was sealed behind glass in his personal vault.
Only his sisters were allowed to see it. They stood in silence. Not one spoke.
Because finally… they understood:
He wasn't just painting the world.
He was trying to remember how to feel it again.