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Hi, listeners. I'm Shai Shirei, and I have a story I want to tell you.

A story about what grows in the space between life and death.

So gather round and listen close.

The first thing I noticed was her dress. It wasn't all that unique, just some long green peasant thing,

but it was enough to make me look at the whole painting.

Forest check. Rosie cheaked woman with the kerchief over her hair, check.

All it needed was a little dog and a rainbow, and the cliche would be all there.

But somehow, it didn't strike me as cheesy. In fact, it was actually kind of fascinating.

All in all, not bad. For a no-name portrait by a no-name artist hanging on the wall of a living room that was probably super-triending in 1957, right?

It definitely wasn't a Rembrandt, but it wasn't Elvis one Black Velvet either.

Considering it belonged to my coworker, Alan, who was letting me stay at his family's lake house for the long weekend,

the least I could do was be polite.

Is she a relative of yours?

I asked, nodding at the painting. Alan shook his head.

Um, no. Grandpa Wallace always called her the mushroom hunter.

The what? Oh. I looked at the basket tucked at her side.

It was filled to the brim with mushrooms and fungi of all sizes. Some stark white, others buttery yellow,

all with forest dirt still clinging to them.

I thought I saw a hint of red peeking up from near the bottom of the basket, but I blinked and it was gone.

I want to say he got it out of flea market and new haven or something back when he was living here year round.

...