The Rebirth of Color

Color and light—the most fundamental elements that allow us to perceive the world.

And sight, the sense that allows us to behold them.

The year 2000, heralded as the dawn of a new millennium.

No matter how popularized photography became, the authority of painting as an art form that satisfied human vision remained absolute.

From Catherine's fingertips, a kaleidoscope of colors stretched across the canvas.

Thick layers of violet paint filled the canvas.

It was the violet of a sky just after sunset, right when the last red embers of twilight are swallowed by the dark.

The paint piled up along the crests of waves, capturing a sea that had swallowed that fleeting sky whole.

Catherine recalled the words of the critics published in the art magazines she had recently received.

Between consciousness and concept.

It was an era flooded with art that was difficult to understand without an explanation.

In such times, Catherine's paintings, which brought out the pure beauty of the medium, were finally gaining recognition.

A swirling violet laid upon a flat surface.

Even if it wasn't the typical blue sea everyone knew, people could still feel it.

That day. The yearning for the setting sun and the anticipation of the oncoming night that Catherine had felt by that sea.

Catherine, who had been layering oil paint so thickly it felt three-dimensional, stopped her brush.

"..."

Her vision was suffocatingly narrow.

Wiping her paint-stained hands haphazardly, she stepped back from the canvas she had been huddled over.

She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and squeezed in her prescribed eye drops, but nothing changed.

"Is that doctor a quack?"

Saint-Denis, a rustic suburb just outside Paris.

A place like this only had mediocre clinics.

"He said it would get better if I used the drops."

She couldn't even see her own painting properly.

Catherine backed up all the way to the wall of her cramped studio.

"...Tsk."

A massive canvas filled with a rich, diverse violet, shot through with blues and reds.

She could only see fragments of the breathing water and the texture of the wind on its surface.

Even with her back pressed against the wall, she couldn't take in the entire piece.

"It might be temporary retinal constriction caused by stress, so you should cut back on your work."

Catherine recalled the doctor's words but shook her head.

Now in her thirties, Catherine was a painter who was only just beginning to see the light of success.

An orphan with no one to lean on, no family, and absolutely no backing.

In a life that had started not at rock bottom, but in the deep underground, light was finally breaking through.

She had only one month left until her solo exhibition.

I don't have time to rest.

The highlight of this exhibition.

The piece, measuring over size 200, was only a few final details away from completion.

The bright, pale yellow moonlight pouring over the sea.

She needed to paint that light, clinging tightly to the edges of the waves and clouds, right on the very top layer.

Without it, the painting would just feel gloomy and mysterious.

The true emotion she intended would never be felt.

Since she had some time before the paint dried...

I need to get some proper medicine.

The moment she made up her mind, Catherine moved.

She had barely any money left, but she gathered every last coin.

Carrying the pungent scent of oil paint that refused to wash off, Catherine headed toward the metro station.

"Ah!"

"Oh, excuse me."

"Watch where you're going!"

An office worker in a sharp suit grimaced in disgust as he collided with Catherine.

Catherine's hands were stained with layers of old, dried paint that could no longer be scrubbed away.

Glancing at her hands, the office worker scoffed, checked his own clothes one more time, and hurried away.

Despite her shabby appearance, Catherine only looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠embarrassed.

If she had cared about how others looked at her, she would never have been able to walk this path.

Catherine possessed an immense pride as an artist.

"..."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

However, one thing weighed heavily on her mind.

Catherine had truly not seen the office worker at all, even though he was close enough to brush shoulders.

Now that she was aware of it, her vision felt even narrower.

Inside the dim metro station.

Everything looked hazier and more uncomfortable.

I must have pushed myself too hard lately.

Catherine desperately tried to suppress her foreboding thoughts.

Once I finish this exhibition, I'll take a little break.

Yes, that will do.

Everything will be fine then.

"I'm sorry, but it's already too late."

But at the university hospital she finally reached, the words she heard were in a direction she had never anticipated.

"Too... too late? What do you mean by that...?"

"Have you ever heard of... Retinitis Pigmentosa?"

Retinitis what?

Seeing Catherine's distorted expression, the doctor sighed and continued.

"To put it simply, it's a disease where you gradually lose your vision, starting from the periphery."

"Then...!"

If she was sick, they just needed to treat it!

Before Catherine could even finish her thought, the doctor spoke firmly.

"Because it is a genetic condition, there is currently no cure."

Her heart plummeted.

Those people who called themselves her parents, whom she had never even known—they had left her with this?

"For now, it would be best to prepare yourself. Though, you are among those who have managed to preserve their sight for quite a long time..."

The doctor was saying something more, but it no longer registered in Catherine's ears.

The only thing that mattered was that there was no way.

No cure.

That cold, harsh reality.

"..."

In the end, all the doctor prescribed was vitamins.

Just a few supplements that were supposedly good for the eyes.

Even after paying for those, all she had left in her hand was a single coin.

One euro.

Now... what do I do?

Paris, the city of dreams.

To think she would receive her death sentence as a painter here.

Her entire life had been spent looking only at paintings.

She had spent her entire teens and twenties in that shabby studio.

The fact that her vision was terminal felt so surreal that even despair felt distant and vague.

"..."

And yet, absurdly, Catherine felt hunger.

Even in the midst of this, she was hungry.

Come to think of it, she hadn't had a proper meal in two days.

First because she was too absorbed in her work, and now because she was worrying about her eyes.

"...Pathetic."

Only a single one-euro coin in her pocket.

Paris was expensive; she didn't even know if she could buy a single baguette.

With that thought, Catherine walked through the bustling downtown streets for the first time in a long while.

The last time she had come here, it was to collect the payment for a sold piece.

The hope and ecstasy of that day were barely even memories now.

All she could see in her narrowed field of vision were the countless silhouettes of busy people.

Scurrying like cockroaches, appearing and disappearing beneath them...

...were only countless pitch-black shadows.

"..."

Having managed to buy a single baguette to chew on, Catherine looked around.

Because her vision had narrowed so much, she had to turn her head awkwardly just to see.

Signs pointing to the Marais District and gallery signboards caught her eye here and there.

Absurdly, once her hunger subsided, paintings caught her attention once more.

As if possessed, Catherine turned her steps down the alley.

Even if she were to go blind tomorrow, she wanted to see more art.

A drizzling rain began to fall over Paris.

Catherine simply walked slowly amidst the bustling crowd.

Her steps were heavy, as if misery, rather than leisure, was dragging her down.

The sign of Gallery Montrablu, where her exhibition was scheduled for next month, finally came into view.

A large sign clearly visible even from the wide intersection.

The sleek, sophisticated gallery was currently hosting an exhibition.

Though not a gallery with a long history, it was a highly popular venue known for discovering exceptionally talented new artists.

"..."

Stopping in front of the crosswalk, Catherine took a deep breath.

Only then did her reality truly sink in.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

The first exhibition she had dreamed of might very well be her last.

But still. Still.

I'm just so glad I can at least do that.

As she tried to calm her heart, Catherine's eyes widened.

"Huh?"

Catherine felt something shove her from behind.

Her frail, thin body pitched helplessly toward the road.

She hurriedly spun around and reached out toward the person who had pushed her.

She felt her fingernails scratch against something, but her falling body could not be stopped.

HOOONK—!

Along with the blare of a car horn, her body was launched into the air.

Thud!

A massive impact. Pain. Darkness.

Amidst the jumbled sensations, a scream pierced her eardrums.

"Aaaah!"

"Someone jumped into the road!"

"Someone got hit by a car!"

Amidst the screams of the crowd, her lingering attachment to painting held onto the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠very end of her life.

The painting she had failed to finish filled her mind.

The sea beyond the cliffs of Étretat she had seen once.

Instead of the moonlight of that place, the hazy glow of a streetlamp was the last light Catherine ever saw.

And even that faded into the noise and darkness.

A dull, ringing sound echoed in her ears.

"What's for lunch today?"

"They said it's sweet and sour chicken."

"Ah! Crazy, we have oil painting for third and fourth period today!"

"Hey, Lee Ye-ji. Are you okay, though?"

And she felt a hand tapping her shoulder.

"If you're hurt, just rest in the nurse's office, eat the chicken, and go home early."

"You crazy bastard. Is chicken the priority right now?"

...So noisy.

As she pushed her heavy body up, a throbbing headache hit her.

"..."

Before her eyes were two pairs of brown eyes looking at her with concern.

Catherine registered the fact that she could see.

Her wide-open field of vision felt incredibly refreshing.

Everything, including the two people in front of her and the surrounding room, was crystal clear.

Strange Asians, a strange language...

Wait, no... What was that just now...?

Ye-ji snapped out of it, startled by her own thoughts.

Catherine? Who is Catherine?

The dream she just had was so vivid that she had ended up thinking something absurd.

The boy of the two in front of her, Kang Hyeon-min, spoke.

"Shouldn't you go to the hospital?"

Hyeon-min wore an extremely apologetic expression.

It had all started when Hyeon-min, fooling around with a soccer ball since morning, accidentally hit her with it.

In the brief moment she had lain face down, complaining of dizziness, and fallen asleep...

She had... dreamed a strange dream.

"Are you really okay?"

Her desk partner and best friend, Da-hye.

Ye-ji couldn't answer Da-hye's question right away.

The memories were far too vivid to simply dismiss as a dream, even after waking.

The thirty-odd years she had lived as Catherine.

A life of stubbornly clinging to her art, lonely and struggling amidst poverty and prejudice.

"Yeah, maybe I should go to the hospital..."

Ye-ji muttered, still looking dazed.

Even she found it absurd.

After calming down Hyeon-min and Da-hye, who were trying to drag her to the staff room to get an early dismissal slip, she sat back down.

Throughout the boring classes that followed, Ye-ji's mind was completely adrift.

Was it just a dream? Or had she remembered a past life?

Even in this surreal situation, her body moved out of habit, following her daily routine.

"If you feel even a little dizzy again, you have to tell me...!"

Third period. Oil painting practice.

Sitting in front of her easel, Da-hye whispered while keeping an eye out for the teacher.

The easel in front of her and the sketch on it felt exceptionally foreign.

A vase placed in front of a window had a simple base color painted on it.

Is this really my painting?

This brush, palette, water bucket, and easel.

They were all definitely hers, yet not a single thing felt familiar.

"..."

In her confusion, Ye-ji hesitantly picked up the brush.

Without even realizing it, Ye-ji began mixing red and purple on the palette.

Her brush, heavily loaded with paint, pressed firmly against the canvas.

"..."

At that moment, Ye-ji realized.

Along with the vivid sensation returning to her fingertips, she felt an absolute certainty.

What followed was an immersion bordering on trance.

Ye-ji squeezed out every bit of paint she had onto the palette and moved her brush without hesitation.

"Alright, let's clean up and have lunch."

Only when the teacher's voice sounded along with the bell did Ye-ji stop her brush.

"Hey, hurry up and clean up so we can go eat—"

Da-hye, who was about to rush Ye-ji, froze the moment she saw her painting.