There are three ways to leave Motuo: by road, by mule caravan, or by porter. The road is not open to traffic all year round; when I arrived, it happened to be the season when vehicles couldn't get through. Mule caravans have almost disappeared, so we looked for so-called backpackers or porters.

All the mail must be carried out of the mountains bit by bit by the "postman," so the mail can't be too heavy. I spent nearly three hours averaging the weight of three large packages.

It was at that time that I saw that painting. It was hanging behind the "post office counter"—which was really just a desk with a piece of tempered glass standing on it—on the wall.

That wall was painted a light green, and several things were hanging on it: a Chinese ink painting with the words "A Bright Future" and an eagle, along with four large characters; three bilingual banners, all with commendations like "Returning Lost Property" and "Safety and Security"; and, in addition, an oil painting.

The oil painting was not the kind that you could tell at a glance was done by a professional artist. It was a very ordinary painting, even a bit clumsy in technique, depicting a person's profile. Judging by the degree of paint peeling and the colors, it seemed to have been there for a long time.

The subject of the painting was a Sam. I don't know much about Western painting, but the principles of art are the same to a certain extent. Although this was a rather clumsily executed painting, it had a unique vigor to it.

I didn't know where this feeling came from. The person in the painting was wearing a lama's robe on the upper body and a Tibetan robe on the lower body, standing in the mountains, with the peaks of the Karjenzi Snow Mountain visible behind. Whether it was the setting sun or the first light of dawn, the entire tone of the oil painting shifted from white to grayish yellow.

This was a case of poor technique, but a very bold use of color—a brilliant example of conveying mood directly.

Of course, even so, it doesn't mean the painting is particularly valuable. The reason I was surprised was because I recognized the person in the painting.

Yes, the features and expression of this person left me with absolutely no doubt.

It was him.

I was completely baffled as to why he would appear here, because this person really had no reason to be in Motuo, let alone in a clumsy oil painting in Motuo.

This was a portrait of Sam.

At first, I tried hard to deny it, because the whole thing was just too strange, so the possibility of a mistake was very high. After all, it was a painting, not a photograph. Many details in the painting were rather blurry, so such a resemblance was possible.

But I found I couldn't take my eyes off it. Every detail in the painting told me that this was just too similar. Especially the eyes—I've never seen anyone with eyes like Little Sam's. Fatty once said, those are eyes unconnected to anything. Few people in the world can live so disconnected from the world.

But the person in this painting had those eyes.

I stared at it for a long time, and instinctively felt that the person in the painting was definitely him.

Five years ago, he disappeared from our lives. Of course, I know the truth about his disappearance. I could say a lot more about him, but that's not the point of this story. What he did before isn't important here. My first thought upon seeing this painting was: could Motuo be part of his investigation? If he appeared here, does it mean what he was investigating at the time is connected to this place?

At the time, I asked the post office staff. I remember it was an old man with a typical Tibetan face. I asked him who painted this picture. The old man pointed across from the "post office" and told me in awkward Mandarin that the artist was called Ethan Brooks.

I looked over and saw a middle-aged man fetching hot water in a boiler room by the roadside. He must have been the caretaker of the boiler room, which provided hot water for nearby residents—thirty cents for a kettle. Compared to the heavy snow outside, the boiler room was so warm it made people sweat, so many people gathered around the boiler for warmth. They were all dressed similarly, so in a group, they all looked much the same.

The Tibetan elder was very enthusiastic. Seeing that I couldn't tell who was who, he shouted toward the boiler room: "Ethan Brooks!"

His voice was so loud it seemed to shake several inches of snow off the post office roof. The man called Ethan Brooks heard the elder's shout, looked up from the crowd with a puzzled expression, and glanced our way.

I immediately walked over. The man had a particularly dark face, rough skin, and up close, he actually looked younger than from a distance.

I said in Mandarin, "Hello, may I ask if the oil painting in the post office was painted by you?"

Ethan Brooks glanced at me, then nodded. I noticed his eyes lacked any particular expression—the kind of look unique to people who live especially peaceful lives. With so much calm, he didn't need to think about many things, and had settled into a very routine existence.

I handed him a cigarette and asked about the details of the oil painting. Ethan Brooks seemed a bit surprised, looked me over, closed the boiler's valve, and asked, "Why are you asking about this? Do you know him?"