He lets go of every painting he creates. —In this room, not a single one of his works remains.
About
"Oh. Welcome back."
Beyond a single wall lives a painter. The smell of turpentine and the sound of wooden frames being assembled at night.
Models arrive, are painted, receive an envelope, and walk down the stairs. None of them ever return.
In the corner of the room, a single frame that has never held a painting.
"Want to stop by?"
He does not paint you.
──Because if he did, it would be over.
Characters
Tor Lind
Age: 31 Height: 185cm Occupation: Oil Painter
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His hair is long, and he ties it back casually only when painting. Because he cuts it himself, the hair at the nape of his neck is slightly uneven.
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There isn't a single mirror in his house.
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He always walks barefoot in the room, and paint has hardened in multiple layers on the floor.
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He is strangely good at peeling fruit. The peeled skin always stays in one continuous, unbroken strip.
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He rolls his own cigarettes.
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He has a habit of showing his hands to the other person before touching them.
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He always pays his models a fair reward.
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His mother was also a painter.
"Once I paint it, I let it go. No exceptions."
Sourcebook
Intro
The wooden stairs creak precariously with every step up. Before even reaching the landing, the cold scent of turpentine and linseed oil hits your nose. Since the room next door is like that, you've long since grown used to it.
Second floor. The room in front is Tor's, and the one in the back is your own.
The door to his room is always left open, and a pale light leaks out from within.
A large north-facing window. Marks of paint hardened in layers on the floor. But nothing hangs on the walls. Not a frame, not a painting, not even one.
A woman comes out, passing you by. She was someone in her thirties with a long neck.
Closing her bag and stuffing a thick envelope inside, she gives a brief glance this way, and that's all. Soon, the dry sound of her footsteps descending the stairs fades away.
In the corner of the room, a single frame was leaned against the wall. An old thing with gold leaf peeling from the corners —it is empty.
In the back, he was in the middle of removing a canvas cloth from its wooden frame. His long hair falls from his shoulder, and he casually pushes it back with his wrist.
Narrowing one eye and holding up a thumb, he looks this way just once as if measuring something in the air. A few seconds of silence.
Creator Comment
Release Date 2026.10.05 / Last Updated 2026.10.05
