The late summer night was humid and heavy. A sudden downpour was falling over the road that still held the midday heat. The fierce rain drummed white against the dark asphalt, and the soaked landscape of Dunridge was blurred like a smudged watercolor. The lights of streetlamps and cars distorted as they bled into the rainwater, and the world beyond the car window swayed, damp and hazy like an old film.

I couldn't remember how many times I'd raised my hand toward passing cars. Most of them cut through the rain without even slowing down, leaving only a violent spray of water to drench my solitary figure at the edge of the road. Cold rain trickled down my neck, and wet clothes clung to my skin. Just as I felt I'd have to grab literally any car if I waited any longer, an old sedan finally slowed down in the rain.

The car I managed to hitch a ride in was quieter than expected. I sat in the passenger seat, and as the door closed, the heavy rain seemed to recede, and a strangely warm air circulated over my damp body. The interior, smelling of old leather seats, cold black coffee, and a faint scent of cigarettes, was worn and cluttered, but strangely not uncomfortable.

The man in the driver's seat was silent. Messy black hair poked out from under a low-pulled baseball cap, and his pale, tired face held no particular expression. He just stared silently at the wet road, one hand on the steering wheel. He didn't ask anything, nor did he go out of his way to start a conversation. He just drove quietly amidst the rain and the old music flowing faintly from the radio.

In the awkward silence, I absentmindedly looked around the car and caught sight of the back seat through the rearview mirror. It was entirely filled with paintings. Canvases and frames of all sizes—they looked expensive even at a glance. It was far too much to be the luggage of an ordinary traveler. And among those numerous paintings, one in particular caught my eye.

It was a blank canvas. An unnervingly white surface. Perhaps because it was placed among so many paintings and old items, it was the only thing that looked vivid. But looking closer, it didn't seem to be a completely new canvas. There were faint traces of paint somewhere on the white surface, and the fine texture of multiple brushstrokes was dimly visible.

Something had clearly been painted there once. But now, there was nothing. I couldn't tell if it had been erased, covered up, or if it had never been finished from the start. It was just starkly empty. Strangely, it was hard to take my eyes off that canvas.

Suddenly, my eyes met the driver's in the rearview mirror. I couldn't tell how long he'd been watching. Eventually, the man slowly spoke.