Return of the Genius Photographer

―Cough! Cough!

The day began with a cough.

In the dim light of dawn, before the sun had risen,

the air had grown unbearably cold.

At this hour, the cough always came.

The room was so chilly that his breath turned into visible mist.

The old man slowly rose from his bed.

As his groggy mind cleared, a wave of cold washed over him.

Shivering, he made his way to the heater.

The heater, as old as he was, had seen better days. It barely provided warmth unless he stood right next to it.

“Your time’s almost up too,” the old man muttered quietly.

It was hard to tell whether he was talking about himself or the heater.

A bitter expression crossed his face.

Lately, these thoughts had been coming more frequently.

Maybe he was losing his mind…

After warming himself up, the old man left his bedroom and descended to his shop.

―Creak!

He hurriedly opened the door to his shop, as if there was something urgent to do.

First things first.

As soon as the door opened, a rush of cold air swept in.

A small breeze blew in from the empty lot outside.

The old man knew better than anyone that no customers would come, even if he opened the shop early in the morning.

But opening the shop was a ritual that marked the start of his daily routine.

Ever since he had set up shop here, he had never once neglected to open it.

―Dunphy’s Pigments―

Soon after, the old man stepped outside, climbed a ladder, and straightened the tilted sign.

The sign bore his name, a precious marker of his identity.

For some reason, it kept leaning lately.

If he didn’t fix it, it would only get worse.

So, straightening the sign had become part of his morning routine.

‘When did it get so worn out…?’

The old man absentmindedly stroked the sign, lost in thought.

From the outside, the shop looked particularly shabby.

It seemed as worn and sickly as he was, as if waiting for its final days.

Every time the wind blew, the roof creaked.

This shop, which had been with him for nearly half his life, was like an extension of himself.

Once, it had been bustling with aspiring artists.

But now, it was just a dilapidated, forgotten place.

―Creak!

No sooner had he fixed it than the sign tilted again, groaning as it did.

‘Ugh, seriously.’

Letting out a hollow laugh, the old man climbed back up the ladder and adjusted the sign once more.

Then, as if refusing to care any longer, he quickly descended.

Even without customers, there was still plenty of work to do.

After putting away the ladder, the next task was dusting the shop.

The rare pigments he had collected over the years.

The colorful fabrics dyed with them would fade if not regularly cleaned.

From the outside, the shop might look like it was falling apart.

But inside, thanks to his diligent care, it was still tidy.

As he swung the duster, the old man suddenly winced.

“Ouch…”

A sharp pain shot through his lower back.

‘This keeps happening lately…’

He paused for a moment, rubbing his back.

The back pain had been getting worse recently, and he was starting to get used to these occasional aches.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact cause, but…

It was probably just his age.

No, it definitely was.

When you got old, everything hurt…

‘I should probably close the shop soon.’

Leaning the duster against the wall, the old man laboriously sat down on a chair and stared blankly outside.

Though no one would guess it now, this place had once been a well-known pigment shop.

Collecting pigments of all colors had been a hobby of his since he first opened the shop.

Back then, many people had appreciated his efforts.

“Do you have any new pigments, sir?”

“Did the pigment I ordered come in?”

“Sir, I’ve brought a painting I made…”

“Can you recommend a pigment?”

Memories flooded his mind whenever he thought about it.

The young dreamers.

The talented artists.

The shop had always been full of life, with people visiting almost every day.

He couldn’t remember when the lot outside had become so desolate.

‘Come to think of it, when was the last time a customer came…?’

His thoughts naturally drifted to the photographer who had visited about a week ago.

‘What was his name again…?’

It had been so long since he’d had a customer.

The man had been friendly and left a good impression.

He had a pleasant personality and listened well, so the old man had chatted with him at length.

He even took a photo before leaving, so the memory was vivid, but his name escaped him.

‘He was such a nice person…’

But since then, not a single customer had come for a week.

‘Getting old just fills your head with useless thoughts.’

Feeling a pang of loneliness, the old man carefully got up from his chair.

What was the point of thinking about it anyway?

It wouldn’t change a thing.

Shaking off his gloomy thoughts, the old man decided to paint to soothe his troubled heart.

He set up his easel and placed a blank canvas on it.

Whenever he looked at the pristine white canvas, his heart would race just thinking about what to paint.

At times like these, he felt that being an artist was truly his calling.

The old man began to apply paint to the canvas, letting his hands move freely as he expressed his emotions.

The sign, clean and new as if it had just been made.

The shop, standing tall and proud.

The once-empty lot now bustling with people.

And himself, looking happy and content…

Whether the scene he was painting was a memory of the past he had recalled earlier,

Or a vision of the future he longed for, only the old man knew.

But anyone could guess that the scene he was painting could never come true.

Even the one painting it knew that…

Still, the old man poured his hopes and dreams onto the canvas.

But then…

“Is this Dunphy’s Pigment Shop, the one featured in World Travel?”

“Who…?”

“The sign matches, so it must be the place.”

“The vibe is different from the photo, though.”

“No, it looks the same to me.”

Suddenly, a group of people appeared out of nowhere.

The old man was startled and bewildered.

If it had been just one or two people, it might not have been so surprising.

But there were at least five or six people pouring in all at once.

The first thought that crossed the old man’s mind was that they might be troublemakers here to cause a scene.

He eyed them warily, but…

“Wow! This is amazing.”

“I’ve never seen pigments like these before.”

“Look at the ceiling! The fabrics hanging there are all different colors!”

“It’s so vibrant.”

“I can’t believe a place like this exists right in the heart of New York…”

The people were looking around the shop with awe, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

‘Real customers…?’

The old man stared at them, utterly confused.

“Are all these hanging fabrics dyed with the pigments here?”

“Probably? I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Sir! What are these pigments made of?”

The visitors exclaimed in amazement as they explored the shop, finding everything fascinating.

Snapping out of his daze, the old man asked, “Are you all together? Where did you come from?”

“Haven’t you seen the magazine, sir?”

“Magazine?”

“Yes. This place was featured in World Travel. They called it a hidden gem.”

One of the visitors pulled out a magazine and showed it to him.

The moment the old man saw the photos, he immediately recognized them as the ones taken by the photographer who had visited a week ago.

The photographer had lamented how the shop had been forgotten by people and had taken photos.

The magazine featured those very photos.

The shot of the shop’s exterior was on the cover.

And as he flipped through the pages, he found more photos of the shop’s interior, taken at some point without him even realizing.

The shop looked unbelievably beautiful, even to him.

“I want to let people know about this place.”

The old man recalled the photographer’s words.

He had thought it was just empty talk.

So he hadn’t paid much attention at the time.

But had the photographer anticipated this?

It was all so bewildering.

“Do you sell souvenirs here?”

“This is a pigment shop, so…”

“Hey! That painting! Isn’t that the one from the photo?”

One of the visitors noticed the painting hanging on the wall.

It was the self-portrait the old man had shown the photographer.

“Oh! It really is.”

“Wow… It looks even better in person.”

“This… It’s going to be really famous someday, isn’t it?”

After admiring the painting, the visitors turned to the old man.

“Sir, is this for sale?”

“Well, yes…”

“How much? I’ll take it.”

“Hey! I saw it first! Sir, I’ll buy it! Is $500 enough?”

“Then I’ll pay $700!”

They began to argue, each trying to outbid the other to buy the painting.

“I’ll pay a thousand!”

“Twelve hundred!!!”

The shop had turned into a small auction house.

The price of the painting kept climbing.

The old man swallowed hard as he watched the scene unfold.

More people entered and joined the bidding, and the shop became more crowded than ever.

“Three thousand dollars!”

“Four thousand!”

But then…

“Ten thousand dollars!”

A voice cut through the escalating bids with a staggering amount.

Everyone turned toward the source of the voice.

“That painting is mine!”

A young man declared confidently.

***

Malcolm had seen Kai’s photo a few days ago.

“K-Kai is in New York?”

The magazine cover that had caught his eye at a newsstand while he was walking down the street.

As he picked it up, his hands trembled.

― The photographer who stunned Arles, Kai! Capturing New York!

The subject of the photo was none other than Kai, the photographer Malcolm admired most.

‘No way… This is insane!’

Malcolm was overwhelmed with joy.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

He had come to America from England to properly learn photography.

While waiting for his application to be processed, he had been sightseeing.

And now, coincidentally, Kai was here too.

‘No wonder the cover felt so extraordinary.’

To Malcolm, Kai was more than just a photographer he respected—he was someone Malcolm aspired to become.

Seeing Kai, who had shown such genius at a young age, Malcolm had always wanted to meet him.

If asked to name his favorite photographer, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to say Kai.

Though Malcolm himself was a promising newcomer, he believed he couldn’t even come close to Kai’s level.

‘I can’t just stand here.’

After staring at the photo for a while, Malcolm shook his head as if to snap out of it.

This wasn’t the time.

He needed to hurry to the shop Kai had visited.

Following in the footsteps of a genius was something anyone who admired them would do.

And if there were any traces of Kai left in the shop…

‘I’d spend my entire fortune to get my hands on it.’

If he ran out of money, he could always ask his wealthy family for help.

That’s what Malcolm thought.

With the magazine in hand, Malcolm hurried toward the shop Kai had been to.

As soon as he arrived, he assessed the situation and immediately jumped into the auction.

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“What the…?”

“I guess we’re out…”

People murmured at Malcolm’s sudden appearance.

It was no surprise, as the price he had called out far exceeded what anyone else there could afford.

‘The painting from Kai’s photo! I can’t let this slip away!’

Malcolm smiled confidently.

The silence in the shop.

It meant everyone had given up on the auction.

Just as Malcolm was about to approach the owner for confirmation…

“Twenty thousand!”

Someone shouted.

“Twenty thousand…!!”

“Wow! Who’s that guy now?”

People buzzed with excitement.

Malcolm immediately frowned and shouted back.

“Hey, the auction’s over.”

The man in a black coat and a fedora looked anything but ordinary.

Malcolm guessed he was either an expert who knew the painting’s value or a serious collector.

“It doesn’t make sense to let such a masterpiece go for pocket change. The owner hasn’t confirmed anything yet, has he?”

As expected, the man in the fedora saw right through the situation.

Though still a newcomer, the painting had appeared in a photo by Kai, a famous photographer.

As Kai’s fame and value grew, the painting’s price would undoubtedly skyrocket.

Most of the people here were just casual tourists.

They had been chattering without knowing the painting’s true worth.

But the fedora man’s arrival signaled that this auction wasn’t going to end easily.

This was why Malcolm had wanted to secure the painting before collectors jumped in…

Malcolm quickly calculated how much money he could muster.

“I’ll keep raising the bid by ten thousand over whatever you offer. So, why don’t you just give up?”

The fedora man chuckled dismissively, ignoring Malcolm.

“You’re going to regret saying that.”

Malcolm, not backing down, was about to escalate the situation when…

Another group, dressed in suits, rushed into the shop.

“Is the owner here?”

The woman at the front of the group spoke, and the old man, looking bewildered, replied.

“I’m the owner…”

“May I ask your name?”

“Phil. Phil Dunphy.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dunphy. We’re from Sotheby’s.”

The woman politely handed him her business card and introduced herself.

She was from Sotheby’s.

One of the most prestigious auction houses, alongside Christie’s.

“S-Sotheby’s? Why…?”

Dunphy stammered in confusion.

“Mr. Dunphy, would you consider putting your work up for auction at Sotheby’s?”

“Why all of a sudden…?”

“Several collectors have expressed interest and asked us to reach out.”

The Sotheby’s representative added.

“We’ll do our best to ensure your work fetches the highest possible price.”

The painting that Dunphy had thought of as mere doodles.

It was about to become a masterpiece.