Santa Rosa, northern coast of Palermo.
Morning had the color of water, pale and bright. Light streamed through the gallery's tall windows, filling the air with gold.
Naiara arrived early, too early, as she always did when control was the only thing keeping her steady.
Every day she chased the same illusion: if everything stayed in its place, maybe her thoughts would stop shaking.
Clara was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, camera resting in her lap.
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked without looking up.
"Maybe two hours."
"I dreamed the gallery flooded and you were swimming like a mermaid with a cup of coffee in your hand."
Naiara smiled faintly. "At least I'm useful somewhere."
"The coffee was bitter, though."
"Like life."
Clara laughed and stood, stretching her arms.
"So? Big day, director. Ready to meet the genius of modern art?"
"I don't know about genius. His message sounded more like a sermon. 'My canvases will speak for themselves.'"
"Perfect. We can stay silent and suffer less."
Their laughter echoed lightly across the room. For a brief moment, Nay felt normal again.
The white canvas from the day before still leaned against the back wall.
She hadn't touched it. Every time she passed near it, her stomach tightened, as if that blank thing were breathing.
The doorbell chimed. A man stepped in with the confidence of someone used to being watched.
"Good morning," he said in a smooth, deliberate tone. "May I?"
Luca Bressan.
Around thirty, golden-skinned, linen shirt half-buttoned, blond hair artfully messy.
He smiled like someone aware of the effect of his own smile.
"It's a pleasure. I believe we were expecting each other."
From across the room, Clara muttered, "Unfortunately, yes."
He ignored her, turning to Naiara.
"You must be Miss Moreno. They say you're the soul of this place."
"I'm just the director."
"Then both soul and mind. The two rarely live in the same woman. Congratulations."
Her smile was polite and cold.
"Did you bring your portfolio?"
"Of course, but first I like to feel a space. The walls, the light. Every room has its breath, don't you think?"
He stepped closer. His cologne was thick and sweet, suffocating in the fresh morning air. Naiara leaned back instinctively.
"The light here is perfect," he said softly. "Especially on you. I should paint you someday."
"I prefer to stay behind the scenes."
"I don't believe that. A woman like you wasn't born to hide."
Clara sighed from the corner. "Here we go, the poetry section."
Luca shot her a brief glare, then returned to Naiara.
He moved even closer, voice dropping lower, almost a whisper.
"May I?" he asked and before she understood what he meant, he brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear.
A small gesture. Enough to break everything.
A sharp sound, glass shattering somewhere far away.
The air vanished. The world shrank. It wasn't the gallery anymore.
Black floor, slick with spilled wine.
A man's voice, hoarse, shouting: "Don't move!"
Hot breath on her neck. The sting in her back, the flash of pain. The smell of metal, sweat, and rage. The cold tiles against her cheek.
The present came back all at once, lungs empty, heart exploding in her chest.
She stepped back fast, knocking a chair to the ground. Her hands shook violently.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
"I… I'm sorry," she whispered.
Luca laughed. "It happens. I tend to have that effect. Too much tension, huh?"
Clara rose slowly. She didn't run, didn't raise her voice. She walked toward them with the calm of someone who had already decided what to do.
"Bressan, right?"
"Yes?"
"Good. Then now you're going to take one step back. Maybe two, if you don't want to trip over your own ego."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You just invaded a woman's space while she was working, not posing. The gallery's closed, for you. Exit's to your right."
He looked from her to Naiara, half-smirking, half-confused.
"Complicated women."
"No," Clara said evenly. "Educated women. Patient ones, up to a point."
He gave a mocking little bow and left.
The door closed too loud, too sudden.
Silence dropped like a weight.
Naiara stayed still, shoulders stiff, eyes on the floor. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Every sound, the hum of lights, the wind against the glass, felt like a threat.
Clara stepped closer, careful not to touch.
"Hey… you okay?"
Naiara nodded, but no sound followed.
Clara didn't press. She simply stayed beside her, quiet.
After a long moment, Naiara drew a shaky breath.
"It wasn't him," she murmured.
"I know."
"It was what I felt. Like… everything came back."
Clara nodded slowly.
"Sometimes it doesn't take much. A voice. A smell. The wrong hand."
She handed her a glass of water.
Naiara took it, her fingers trembling so hard the glass rattled.
She set it down before it slipped.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You don't have to be."
They sat in silence.
Outside, the afternoon light poured through the windows like honey.
The sea sounded closer than usual, as if it were listening.
Naiara ran a hand through her hair, trying to steady her breath.
She wasn't the girl from Seville anymore.
But the fear… the fear had never really left her.
For a heartbeat she saw it again: the scar, the pull of skin, the wound that still throbbed in dreams.
It was as if the past had a scent, iron, rain, and silence.
Clara looked at her carefully. "I'll step out for some air. You want to come?"
"No. Just a minute."
Clara nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Naiara remained there, hands clasped tightly on her knees.
Outside, the street was empty. Inside, the sound of the sea merged with her heartbeat.
She wasn't afraid of that man.
She was afraid of what he'd woken up inside her.