TSHL 11

Chapter 11

 The Owner of the Gallery

A countryside with a beautiful view.

Below the large mountain, the golden rice fields swayed like waves on the sea, stirred by the wind.
The cries of flying birds rang out clear and pure, reminding humankind of nature’s presence.
The winding river joined with the sea, and at dusk, the landscape turned into a single, breathtaking painting.

In that place stood a small gallery.
And I—was its new owner.

When I left the duke’s estate, there were three things I considered most important in finding a new home.

First, it had to be as far away from the duchy as possible.
Second, it had to be somewhere with no nobles who might recognize me.
Third, it had to be a place where I could settle easily.

After much thought, I chose a region in the far south of the empire—Laurentia.

It was an agricultural area, mostly populated by elderly folks—your typical “warm-hearted countryside.”
It was also where Diana and I used to visit a villa during her days as the count’s daughter.
After she married and moved to the duchy, we stopped coming; it was too far away.

So it was a familiar place for me—yet far removed from the world of the duke’s household.

I used my personal savings to buy a failing gallery that was on the brink of closure.
Even now, I’m not sure why I bought it. I was simply… drawn to it.
Maybe because a gallery—something that belonged in a bustling city—looked so lonely, sitting abandoned in the middle of nowhere.
I thought, maybe I could fill that empty space.

It also appealed to me that there was a small living quarter attached—for the staff who managed it.

And that’s how I became the owner of a gallery no one ever visited, in the middle of the countryside.

I was no longer a duchess; I needed at least some income.
Not much—just enough to live on.

…Technically, according to the divorce contract, the Duke of Hydrian was obligated to continue providing financial support.
But I didn’t want that.
I wanted to live freely—on my own choices, with my own earnings.
If I accepted his money, I felt I’d never truly escape the duchy’s shadow.
So I ignored that clause and left with nothing.

Hardly anyone came to the gallery—maybe a few visitors a week.
Entrance fees alone couldn’t sustain me.
So I decided to sell coffee and tea inside.

I had run a café back in the duchy once, so the idea wasn’t bad.
Fortunately, over time, a few regulars started to appear.
Perhaps it was because the gallery sat right along the main road that led from the village to the city.
Or maybe it was the view—the golden waves of rice swaying under the sunlight.

People would stop by for their own reasons, rest for a while, and continue their journey.
No one ever guessed that I had once been the Duchess of Hydrian.

The gallery, though small, still held various artworks—remnants from before it went bankrupt.
Spending every day surrounded by paintings, one day I suddenly felt an urge to try painting myself.

It’s my gallery, I thought. Why not paint something of my own?

On a trip to town for groceries, I stumbled upon a small workshop.
I bought an easel, some canvases, cheap oil paints, and brushes.
When I had spare time, I’d sit outside the gallery—letting the cool rural breeze brush past me, watching the fields glow gold as the sun sank—and I’d let my brush move wherever my heart led it.

I didn’t know what I was painting.
It wasn’t portraits, nor landscapes—something closer to abstraction.
But as my hand moved freely, I found my heart calming down.
I hung the finished pieces on a wall in the corner of the gallery.

Sometimes, visitors would stop to admire them.
A few even became regulars—saying they liked enjoying coffee while looking at the paintings and scenery.

They were peaceful days.
My life was slowly finding stability.

Then, one day, a new customer walked in.

The bell rang—an unfamiliar chime.
I rose from behind the counter.

“Welcome.”

Looking toward the entrance, I saw a man.
A stranger.

He wore a black cloak with a hood pulled low. From the moment I saw him, I knew—he wasn’t ordinary.

Most people who visited this place were either curious travelers or chatty local ladies who liked gossiping over tea, or sometimes quiet folks who enjoyed the view.
In short, they were all older—middle-aged, at least.

But this man carried a different air entirely.

He was young, strong, confident.
Even without seeing his face, the way he walked—firm, steady—told me as much.
There was a refinement to him that didn’t belong to commoners.

Who is he?
Whoever he was, he clearly wasn’t from around here.

He approached me with long strides and lifted his head slightly to glance at the menu board.
Then, a faint look of surprise crossed his hidden face.

“A menu? I thought this was a gallery.”

“It is. But I also run it as a café. There aren’t many visitors these days, as you might guess—it’s a quiet area.”

It was a familiar exchange; first-timers were always surprised that a gallery doubled as a café.

“I see.”
He nodded in understanding. It must have seemed odd to him too—a gallery in such a remote countryside.

After a pause, he said, still facing me under that hood,
“One cup of hot coffee, please.”

“…That’ll be 3,500 penny,” I replied.

His low voice lingered softly in the room.
He paid, and soon the aroma of brewing coffee filled the quiet gallery.

As I prepared the drink, I kept glancing his way.
He wasn’t someone you’d expect to find here. What kind of person is he?

That had become something of a habit since I began running the gallery—
Observing each visitor, imagining the stories they might carry.

And this man’s story—I found myself especially curious about.

When the coffee was ready, I placed it on the counter.

“Your coffee is rea—”

I didn’t finish my sentence.
He was staring—at something on the wall.

It wasn’t strange to see someone look at the paintings; it was a gallery after all.
But his eyes were fixed on my paintings—the ones I had drawn during quiet afternoons and hung myself.

“Those paintings,” he said.

A pale hand slipped out from beneath his cloak, pointing toward them.
“There’s no artist’s name written. Who painted them?”

“…I did,” I answered quietly.

“You?”
He turned to face me. His face was still hidden beneath the hood.

Then, noticing the coffee in my hand, he murmured, “Ah,” and stepped closer.

“Thank you,” he said softly, taking the mug from me.
His hand—visible for just a moment—was white, smooth, unscarred. The hand of someone who had never known labor.

Holding the warm cup, he walked toward the paintings and began to study them—one hand tucked into his pocket, taking occasional sips of coffee.

“Have you ever studied art?” he asked.

“…No. I just paint when I have the time—whatever comes to mind. Maybe it’s because I run a gallery, but I started wanting to try. It’s only a hobby, though… not very good, is it?”

Many visitors looked at the art while drinking coffee, but no one had ever shown particular interest in my own pieces before.
It was both surprising and… a little embarrassing.

In truth, I wasn’t well-versed in art.
Even as a noble-born commoner, I had only taken a few childhood lessons—barely enough to remember.
I’d visited art museums with Diana before her marriage, and a few times as a duchess during social events, but my knowledge was shallow at best.

“I can hardly believe you painted these as a hobby,” he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
“They’re… far too well done for that.”

“…That’s kind of you to say,” I murmured. “Honestly, I was thinking of taking them down. They don’t seem to fit with the rest of the gallery.”

Unintentionally, every painting I made was monochrome.
Perhaps I’d already lived a life full of too much color—my hands no longer reached for bright hues.

As the number of paintings grew, the cozy gallery began to feel darker. I’d even considered discarding them altogether.

“Why?”
He shook his head.

“They’re wonderful.”

“Don’t you think they make the gallery look… a bit gloomy?”

He slowly looked over each piece again before replying.

“They may be painted in grayscale, but look closely—they’re not somber.
The tones are dark, yes, but the brightness shifts subtly, creating contrast and life.
And those clean, steady lines—they bring harmony to the intensity. It’s… quite beautiful.”

“Ah…”

“They’re beautiful works,” he said again. Then paused, as if catching himself talking too much.
When he turned back to me, he added quietly,

“You have talent.”

“…Do I?” I said, my voice uncertain.

His words—gentle, sincere—somehow reached me deeply.
No one had ever said anything like that before. I scratched my head awkwardly, not knowing how to respond.

Then, setting down his now-empty mug, he said,

“…I’ll come by again.”

And with that, he left.

The soft flutter of his cloak lingered in the air.
I stood there for a long time, listening to the fading chime of the bell above the door.

It was… a strange feeling—
unfamiliar, and quietly stirring.