《天堂旅館》長篇奇幻愛情小說

【二】音樂會壁畫
4
傍晚，林曉陽推開旅館大門，晚霞的餘暉映照在湖面上，水霧輕盈，如一層薄紗輕覆著金色波光。他快步上樓，走進房間，順手反鎖了門，然後在面湖的書桌前坐下，開始整理他的旅遊筆記。
他點開筆電，修正著一張行車動線圖，手指不時滑動觸控板，仔細篩選行程中的景點。修訂過的內容，他會一邊低聲念著，一邊在筆記本上畫些草圖，以便日後安排插圖的位置。沉思之際，他抬頭望向湖面，陽光最後的餘暉在水波間搖曳，猶如金線織成的舞衣，一個無形的舞者正翩然起舞。
思索間，疲倦感襲來。他揉揉眉心，索幸伏在桌上小憩。不知過了多久，一種異樣的感覺讓他驚醒。——房間裡，似乎多了一個人。
他微微睜開眼睛，餘光捕捉到書桌上投下了一道不屬於他的影子，細長而挺拔。他的心跳瞬間加快，光源來自落地窗，身後的人影清晰地投映在桌面上。
可是……房門是由內反鎖著的。
林曉陽屏住呼吸，緩緩轉身。
一名青年男子站在房間中央，神色平靜，穿著一件藏青色長袍馬掛，胸前扣子一絲不苟，頭頂戴著一頂紅色扁呢帽，臉上架著一副圓鏡框眼鏡。他的五官帶著東方人的輪廓，溫文儒雅，舉止間透著舊時代的氣息。
林曉陽猛地向後縮，背緊貼著桌緣，驚訝地問：「你是誰？怎麼進來的？」
男子輕輕推了推鏡框，語氣從容：「我是黃立華，我一直住在這間房裡。」
林曉陽的腦海瞬間浮現客廳那幅壁畫上的簽名——「黃立華」。
「你是……油畫的作者？」
「是的。」
還未等林曉陽消化這個驚人的發現，對方便緩緩補上一句，彷彿能聽見他的內心聲音。
「是的，我能聽見你的心聲，很抱歉。」黃立華微微一笑，表情溫和，但這反倒讓林曉陽一陣毛骨悚然。
「你怎麼會……」林曉陽語氣顫抖，頭皮發麻。
「這並不重要。」黃立華輕描淡寫地說，語氣雖平靜，但那雙深邃的眼眸裡閃過一絲難以捉摸的神色。他抬起右手，緩緩指向客廳：「我一直住在那裡。」
林曉陽順著他的指向，看向壁畫。畫中的歐式客廳依舊靜謐，陳設古典，一盞黃銅吊燈垂掛中央，鋼琴半掩著琴蓋，彷彿一場音樂會剛剛結束。
「住在……畫裡？」
「這太荒謬了。」林曉陽心想。
林曉陽猛地起身，快步走向客廳，仔細端詳壁畫。他的指尖沿著畫框滑過，觸感冰冷，畫布紋理清晰，並無任何異樣。
黃立華跟了過來，站在他身旁，不疾不徐地說：「1922年，我完成學業，來瑞士旅遊，住進這家旅館，一直到現在。」
「1922年？！」林曉陽猛地回頭，難以置信地盯著他。「你是說……你已經活了一百多年？」
「如果你看這幅畫的落款日期，就能明白。」
林曉陽低下頭，視線掃過畫角的簽名：「1925年4月13日……」他猛地抬頭，語氣顫抖，「可是你……你看起來比我還年輕！」
黃立華淡淡一笑，眼神深邃：「那是因為，長住在這旅館裡的人，都不會老化。」
林曉陽倒吸一口氣，臉上的震驚表露無遺：「這……怎麼可能？」
「你可以不相信，但這就是事實。」黃立華語氣篤定，目光中透著一種淡然。
林曉陽的心狂跳不止，他不由自主地退了一步：「所以……你是鬼嗎？」
黃立華搖頭，伸出右手，掌心朝上：「你可以摸摸看，我的手是溫熱的。」
林曉陽僵持片刻，終究還是伸出指尖，輕觸對方的手掌。
……的確是溫熱的。
這一瞬間，他的思維幾乎要崩潰。
「這幾十年來……你一直住在這裡？」他吞了吞口水，艱難地問道。
「是的。」黃立華的語氣平靜，眼神卻掠過一抹淡淡的傷感。「我曾短暫回過巴黎，但很快又回來這裡，因為——」
他頓了頓，目光投向窗外的森林，語氣低沉：「我哪裡也去不了。」
林曉陽皺起眉頭：「為什麼？」
黃立華幽幽地說：「因為，這座森林，叫做『忘卻森林』。」
林曉陽心頭一震，正欲追問時，耳邊忽然響起悠揚的琴聲。他循聲望去，壁畫裡，那架鋼琴竟然微微顫動，琴鍵自行起伏，樂聲漸漸清晰。
「來不及解釋了，音樂會即將開始。」黃立華的眼神忽然亮了起來，他輕輕一笑，伸出手：「來吧，我帶你進去。」
林曉陽渾身一震，警覺地往後退了一步：「進……進去哪裡？」
「畫裡。」
黃立華輕輕握住他的手腕。
四周的空間開始微微顫動，壁畫彷彿泛起漣漪般的波紋。林曉陽的心跳狂亂，他掙紮著想抽回手，卻感覺到一股無形的力量將他拉扯過去。
下一秒——他已經不在旅館的客廳，而是置身於一座燈火輝煌的庭院。
樂聲不斷迴盪，悠揚而神秘。
林曉陽驚恐地看向四周，黃立華站在他身旁，嘴角微揚，低聲說道——
「歡迎來到，畫中的世界。」

5
一個時辰後，林曉陽隨著黃立華來到他的畫室。推開那扇雕花木門，淡淡的松香與顏料氣息交融而來。畫室寬敞而幽靜，三面牆上掛滿了各式畫作——水彩的輕盈流動、膠彩的細膩層次、版畫的冷冽剛勁，還有素描筆跡的銳利與柔和。油畫最多，畫布厚重，色彩斑斕，彷彿一個個靜止的故事。
陽光從落地窗灑入，斜斜地投在庭院前的畫架上，架上的半成品油畫隱約浮現出人物的剪影，彷彿靈魂尚未完全降臨畫中。
黃立華走到畫架前，輕輕拂去上面的灰塵，微微一笑：「這裡是我的世界。」
林曉陽目光四處流轉，眼神裡透著驚訝：「這些畫……全都是你畫的？」
黃立華轉過身，手輕輕一揮，帶著幾分自豪：「沒錯。」
曉陽走近牆邊，手指沿著畫框邊緣輕輕滑過，眼神閃爍：「數量可真不少……」
黃立華輕輕點頭，語氣淡然卻藏著深遠的重量：「三千多件。你現在看到的，只是其中十分之一，其餘的都還躺在儲藏室裡，等待它們該被喚醒的時刻。」
林曉陽聽得瞠目結舌，倒抽了一口氣：「三千多件？這……簡直可以開一間私人典藏館了！」
黃立華嘴角微微上揚，眼底閃過一抹懷舊之色：「九十年來，我的日子幾乎只剩下畫畫。這些畫，就是我生命的記錄。」
他轉身，帶著林曉陽來到畫室一角，那裡立著一面古老的落地鏡，銀色鏡框雕刻著繁複的花紋，鏡面波光粼粼，彷彿藏著無數未說出的故事。
黃立華微微側身，語氣難得變得嚴肅：「走進去，你就能回到你的房間。但記住——沒有我帶著你，你絕不可以自己進來。這裡的路，比你想像的還要複雜，我不希望你迷失其中。」
林曉陽站在鏡前，微微猶豫了一下，轉頭看向黃立華：「明天……還能再來嗎？」
黃立華輕輕一笑，語氣帶著一絲神秘：「明天傍晚，在樓下大廳等我，小兄弟。」
林曉陽點點頭，深吸一口氣，然後舉步踏入鏡面。就在他即將消失的瞬間，黃立華輕輕抬手，對他揮了揮——鏡面泛起一陣漣漪，隨即恢復寂靜，彷彿什麼都沒發生過。
6
林曉陽悵然若失地走回自己的房間，推開客廳的門，寂靜頓時將他包圍。剛才那畫裡傳來的聲音，此刻彷彿從未存在過，房間裡只剩下夜色沉沉，空氣裡帶著細微的油畫顏料氣息。
他的目光不自覺地落在牆上的那幅壁畫上，畫中的景物依舊靜謐無聲，但回想起方才那神秘的樂音，他心裡不禁泛起一絲詭異的寒意。曉陽緩步上前，抬起手，指尖輕輕觸碰畫布。微涼的觸感透過指腹傳來，他心頭一震，試著往內按了按，卻發現畫後的牆壁是堅實的。
「怎麼回事？」曉陽皺起眉頭，腦海裡不斷重播剛才聽見聲音的瞬間。「明明有聲音從畫裡傳出來……可這裡根本沒有暗門，也沒有縫隙……」他的指尖沿著畫框邊緣摩挲，彷彿想找到某種機關，然而一無所獲。
他心裡的疑問盤旋不去。黃立華，到底是什麼人？他的存在，究竟是巧合，還是某種安排？
曉陽嘆了口氣，帶著滿腹疑問走回床邊，一頭倒在柔軟的枕頭上，但睡意卻遲遲不來。他翻來覆去，眼神直直盯著天花板，心緒亂成一團。
「黃立華肯定不是幽靈……」他在心裡喃喃自語，回想起他自信沉穩的語氣、帶著些許滄桑的笑容，還有那雙彷彿能看穿人心的眼睛。可如果不是幽靈，那會是什麼？
「難道他是傳說中的吸血鬼？」這個念頭一冒出來，林曉陽自己都愣了一下。他記得傳說裡的吸血鬼長生不老，喜愛藝術，擅長操縱人心……黃立華在這棟樓裡住了九十年，他說他的人生幾乎只剩下繪畫——九十年，這真的是一個普通人能做到的事嗎？
「他為什麼會主動接近我？」曉陽不安地皺起眉頭，腦中浮現黃立華最後對他說的話——「明天傍晚，在樓下大廳等我，小兄弟。」
「他究竟想做什麼？」
房間裡只有鐘擺滴答滴答地響，催促著夜色更深。曉陽翻了個身，緊閉雙眼，試圖讓自己冷靜下來。但內心的疑惑如潮水翻湧，將他的思緒推向一片未知的黑暗。
不知過了多久，窗外透進微微晨光，天色已亮。昏昏沉沉之間，林曉陽才終於陷入夢鄉，然而他的夢裡，卻仍然縈繞著那幅畫、那道聲音，還有那個神秘莫測的男人。

II. The Concert Mural

**4**

At dusk, Lin Xiaoyang pushed open the inn’s front door. The afterglow of sunset illuminated the surface of the lake, while the light mist floated gently over the water, like a thin veil lightly covering the golden ripples. He quickly went upstairs, entered his room, locked the door from the inside, and then sat down at the desk facing the lake to organize his travel notes.

He opened his laptop and began correcting a driving-route map. His fingers moved across the trackpad from time to time as he carefully selected the scenic spots along his itinerary. As he revised the material, he would quietly read it aloud while sketching some rough drawings in his notebook so that he could arrange the locations for illustrations later. Lost in thought, he looked up at the lake. The last rays of sunlight shimmered across the waves, like a dance costume woven from golden threads, while an invisible dancer moved gracefully across the water.

As he thought, fatigue came over him. He rubbed his temples and simply rested his head on the desk for a short nap. He did not know how much time had passed when a strange sensation suddenly startled him awake. There seemed to be another person in the room.

He slowly opened his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a shadow cast across the desk that did not belong to him, slender and upright. His heart suddenly began to race. The light was coming from the floor-to-ceiling window, and the figure standing behind him was clearly reflected across the surface of the desk.

But... the door was locked from the inside.

Lin Xiaoyang held his breath and slowly turned around.

A young man stood in the center of the room, his expression calm. He wore a dark navy long robe with a mandarin-style vest, its buttons fastened with meticulous neatness. On his head was a red flat wool cap, and he wore round-framed glasses. His features had the contours of an East Asian man, and his refined, scholarly bearing carried the atmosphere of a bygone era.

Lin Xiaoyang abruptly recoiled, his back pressed tightly against the edge of the desk. In astonishment, he asked, “Who are you? How did you get in?”

The man gently pushed up the bridge of his glasses and replied calmly, “I’m Huang Lihua. I’ve always lived in this room.”

The signature on the mural in the living room instantly appeared in Lin Xiaoyang’s mind—“Huang Lihua.”

“You’re... the artist who painted the oil painting?”

“Yes.”

Before Lin Xiaoyang could process this astonishing discovery, the man slowly added another sentence, as if he could hear Lin Xiaoyang’s thoughts.

“Yes, I can hear what you’re thinking. I’m sorry.”

Huang Lihua gave a faint smile. His expression was gentle, but that only sent a chill down Lin Xiaoyang’s spine.

“How could you...” Lin Xiaoyang’s voice trembled, and his scalp prickled.

“That isn’t important,” Huang Lihua said casually. His tone remained calm, but an inscrutable expression flashed through his deep-set eyes. He raised his right hand and slowly pointed toward the living room. “I’ve always lived there.”

Lin Xiaoyang followed his gesture and looked toward the mural. The European-style living room depicted in the painting remained quiet and still, its furnishings classical. A brass chandelier hung from the center, while the lid of the piano was half closed, as if a concert had just ended.

“Live... inside the painting?”

“This is absurd,” Lin Xiaoyang thought.

Lin Xiaoyang suddenly stood up and quickly walked into the living room, carefully examining the mural. His fingertips glided along the frame. It felt cold to the touch, and the texture of the canvas was clear. There was nothing unusual about it.

Huang Lihua followed him and stood beside him, speaking in an unhurried manner. “In 1922, I completed my studies, came to Switzerland to travel, and stayed at this inn. I’ve been here ever since.”

“1922?!” Lin Xiaoyang suddenly turned around and stared at him in disbelief. “You mean... you’ve been alive for more than a hundred years?”

“If you look at the date signed in the corner of this painting, you’ll understand.”

Lin Xiaoyang lowered his head, his eyes passing over the signature in the corner of the painting. “April 13, 1925...” He suddenly raised his head, his voice trembling. “But you... you look even younger than I do!”

Huang Lihua smiled faintly, his eyes deep and unfathomable. “That’s because people who stay at this inn for a long time do not age.”

Lin Xiaoyang drew a sharp breath, the shock plainly visible on his face. “How... how is that possible?”

“You don’t have to believe me, but this is the truth.” Huang Lihua spoke with certainty, his gaze carrying an air of calm detachment.

Lin Xiaoyang’s heart pounded uncontrollably. He involuntarily took a step backward. “So... are you a ghost?”

Huang Lihua shook his head and extended his right hand, palm facing upward. “You can touch it if you want. My hand is warm.”

Lin Xiaoyang hesitated for a moment before finally extending his fingertip and lightly touching the other man’s palm.

...It was indeed warm.

At that moment, his mind nearly collapsed.

“For all these decades... you’ve been living here the whole time?” He swallowed and asked with difficulty.

“Yes.” Huang Lihua’s tone was calm, but a faint sadness passed through his eyes. “I briefly returned to Paris once, but I soon came back here because—”

He paused and looked toward the forest outside the window, his voice lowering. “I can’t go anywhere else.”

Lin Xiaoyang frowned. “Why?”

Huang Lihua said quietly, “Because this forest is called the Forest of Forgetting.”

Lin Xiaoyang’s heart jolted. Just as he was about to ask another question, a melodious piano tune suddenly sounded beside him. He followed the sound with his eyes and saw that the piano inside the mural was actually trembling slightly. Its keys were moving on their own, and the music gradually became clearer.

“There’s no time to explain. The concert is about to begin.” Huang Lihua’s eyes suddenly brightened. He smiled gently and held out his hand. “Come on. I’ll take you inside.”

Lin Xiaoyang’s whole body trembled. He warily stepped backward. “I... inside where?”

“The painting.”

Huang Lihua gently took hold of his wrist.

The space around them began to tremble slightly, and ripples seemed to spread across the mural. Lin Xiaoyang’s heartbeat became frantic. He struggled to pull his hand back, but he felt an invisible force dragging him forward.

The next second—

He was no longer in the inn’s living room. Instead, he found himself standing in a brilliantly illuminated courtyard.

The music continued to echo, melodious and mysterious.

Lin Xiaoyang looked around in terror. Huang Lihua stood beside him, the corners of his mouth slightly raised, and said softly—

“Welcome to the world inside the painting.”

**5**

An hour later, Lin Xiaoyang followed Huang Lihua to his studio. When he pushed open the carved wooden door, a faint scent of pine mingled with the smell of paint and drifted toward them. The studio was spacious and quiet. Three walls were covered with all kinds of artwork—the light, flowing quality of watercolor, the delicate layers of traditional mineral-color painting, the crisp, powerful lines of printmaking, and the sharp yet gentle strokes of pencil sketches. There were more oil paintings than anything else. Their canvases were heavy, their colors vivid, as if each one were a story frozen in time.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling at an angle onto the easel in front of the courtyard. The unfinished oil painting on the easel faintly revealed the silhouettes of figures, as if their souls had not yet fully descended into the painting.

Huang Lihua walked over to the easel, gently brushed away the dust on it, and smiled faintly. “This is my world.”

Lin Xiaoyang’s eyes moved around the room, surprise showing in his expression. “These paintings... did you paint all of them?”

Huang Lihua turned around and casually waved a hand, with a hint of pride in his voice. “That’s right.”

Xiaoyang walked closer to the wall, his fingers gently tracing the edges of the frames, his eyes flickering with amazement. “There are quite a lot of them...”

Huang Lihua nodded slightly. His tone was calm, yet it concealed a profound weight. “More than three thousand. What you see now is only one-tenth of them. The rest are still lying in the storage room, waiting for the moment when they are meant to be awakened.”

Lin Xiaoyang was dumbfounded. He drew a sharp breath. “More than three thousand? This... could practically be a private museum collection!”

The corners of Huang Lihua’s mouth lifted slightly, and a trace of nostalgia flashed in his eyes. “For ninety years, my life has consisted of little more than painting. These paintings are the record of my life.”

He turned and led Lin Xiaoyang to a corner of the studio. An old full-length mirror stood there. Its silver frame was carved with intricate patterns, while the surface of the mirror shimmered, as if concealing countless untold stories.

Huang Lihua turned slightly, his tone becoming unusually serious. “Walk into it, and you’ll be able to return to your room. But remember—without me taking you, you must never come in here by yourself. The paths here are more complicated than you can imagine. I don’t want you to get lost in them.”

Lin Xiaoyang stood before the mirror, hesitated slightly, then turned to Huang Lihua. “Can I come back tomorrow...?”

Huang Lihua smiled gently, his tone carrying a hint of mystery. “Tomorrow evening, wait for me in the lobby downstairs, young man.”

Lin Xiaoyang nodded, took a deep breath, and then stepped into the surface of the mirror. Just as he was about to disappear, Huang Lihua gently raised his hand and waved to him—the surface of the mirror rippled for a moment, then returned to silence, as if nothing had ever happened.
**6**

Lin Xiaoyang returned to his room feeling lost and disoriented. When he pushed open the door to the living room, silence immediately surrounded him. The sound that had just come from inside the painting seemed as if it had never existed. The room was filled only with the heavy darkness of night, and a faint smell of oil paint lingered in the air.

His eyes unconsciously fell upon the mural on the wall. The scene in the painting remained quiet and still, but when he recalled the mysterious music he had just heard, a strange chill rose within him. Xiaoyang slowly stepped forward, raised his hand, and gently touched the canvas with his fingertips. A slightly cool sensation passed through his fingertips. His heart jolted. He tried pressing inward, only to discover that the wall behind the painting was solid.

“What’s going on?” Xiaoyang frowned. The moment when he had heard the sound kept replaying in his mind. “There was clearly a sound coming from inside the painting... but there’s no secret door here, and no opening or gap...” His fingertips moved slowly along the edge of the frame, as if he were trying to find some kind of mechanism, but he found nothing.

The questions in his mind refused to go away. Who exactly was Huang Lihua? Was his existence merely a coincidence, or was it part of some kind of arrangement?

Xiaoyang sighed and returned to the bed with a head full of questions. He collapsed onto the soft pillow, but sleep refused to come. He tossed and turned, staring straight up at the ceiling, his thoughts in complete disarray.

“Huang Lihua definitely isn’t a ghost...” he murmured to himself. He recalled the man’s confident, composed tone, his smile carrying a trace of the weariness of age, and those eyes that seemed capable of seeing straight through a person’s heart. But if he wasn’t a ghost, then what was he?

“Could he be a vampire from the legends?” The thought suddenly occurred to Lin Xiaoyang, and even he froze for a moment. He remembered that vampires in legends were immortal, loved art, and were skilled at manipulating people’s minds... Huang Lihua had lived in this building for ninety years, and he had said that almost all that remained of his life was painting. Ninety years—could an ordinary person really do such a thing?

“Why did he deliberately approach me?” Xiaoyang frowned uneasily as Huang Lihua’s final words to him came back to mind—“Tomorrow evening, wait for me in the lobby downstairs, young man.”

“What exactly is he trying to do?”

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock, urging the night to grow deeper. Xiaoyang turned over, closed his eyes tightly, and tried to calm himself down. But the doubts in his heart surged like a tide, pushing his thoughts toward a vast darkness of the unknown.

He did not know how much time had passed before a faint morning light filtered in through the window. Dawn had broken. In a daze, Lin Xiaoyang finally fell asleep, yet in his dreams, the painting, that sound, and the mysterious, unfathomable man continued to linger in his mind.