Chapter 3: A Glimpse of Color
The warehouse job was a penance. For eight hours a night, Liam's world was reduced to the screech of pallet jacks, the thud of cardboard, and the relentless flow of groceries under the sickly fluorescent lights. He welcomed the numbness. It was better than feeling the shame.
His only tether to the "normal" world was a mandatory "World Art History" class, a cruel joke scheduled for 8 a.m. right after his shift ended. He was always late, always slumping into the back row smelling of cardboard and exhaustion.
She was always there early, sitting near the front. He didn't know her name, but he noticed her. It was hard not to. She had a presence—a crown of dark, curly hair tied back loosely, a worn leather satchel, and an intensity in her eyes as the professor droned on. She never took notes; she just listened, sometimes with a frown, sometimes with a faint, skeptical smile.
One week, the topic was Caravaggio. The professor showed *The Calling of St. Matthew*, talking about technical mastery and composition.
Her hand shot up. "But isn't that missing the point?" she asked, her voice clear and cutting through the lecture-hall haze. "The genius isn't just the light, it's what the light *reveals*. It's the grime on the tax collectors' fingers, the shock on Matthew's face. Caravaggio isn't painting saints; he's painting real people being interrupted by grace. The darkness isn't just shadow; it's the weight of their ordinary lives."
Liam, who had been zoning out, found himself leaning forward. It wasn't art criticism; it was a dissection of human nature. It was about seeing what others missed. It resonated with the part of him that was trying to learn to read the hidden patterns in the market's chaos.
After class, he saw her gathering her things. On a whim born of sleep deprivation and curiosity, he approached.
"That was a good point," he said, his voice rough. "About the... grime."
She looked up, slightly surprised. Her eyes were a warm, intelligent hazel. "Thanks. Most people just want the test answers." She slung her satchel over her shoulder. "You're in the back. Engineering?"
"Is it that obvious?" he asked.
"The desperate look of a man trying to stay awake in a room full of feelings? A little." She smiled, not unkindly. "I'm Valentina."
"Liam."
They walked out of the building together, a few awkward steps. The conversation should have ended there.
"Look," she said, stopping. "A bunch of us from the class are doing a tour of the modern art wing at the city gallery on Saturday. The professor gives extra credit. It's less boring than the slides. You should come. Might keep you from failing."
It was a pity offer, he knew. A charity invitation for the sleep-deprived engineer. But the idea of spending a Saturday surrounded by color and life, instead of in his dim room staring at charts, was unexpectedly appealing.
"Okay," he heard himself say. "Yeah. Maybe I will."
He walked away, the ghost of his loss still clinging to him, but for the first time, there was a flicker of something else. A glimpse of a world beyond the zero.