She paced at the window. Her reflection, caught in the glass, became part of the January snowstorm that quietly swirled outside, spiraling in a downward waltz of translucent white flake and wind.
She thought: “How out of control and random life has become; a dance with no one leading. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t desire fame or money – just pure art.”
Now she was forced to hide in this monochromatic winter hostel to be not found by the copycat fans or those wishing her dead.
Yes, dead!
Miyuki never foresaw the fury of the Abstract Expressionists.