Santa Rosa, northern coast of Palermo.
The morning smelled of salt and open windows, of the sea entering the house before thought could.
The gallery was quiet, washed in clean, slanted light. Naiara straightened the catalogs, checked her emails with the kind of focus that looked more like defense than attention. Every movement carried the rhythm of someone trying to keep the world in order.
The bell above the door rang once.
Miguel Moreno walked in, his expensive scent, the perfect smile, a navy-blue suit that cast shadows on the floor. He wore sunglasses indoors, as men do when they like to see without being seen.
"I like the way you've placed the light," he said, glancing around without truly looking. "The gallery breathes."
"Thank you," she replied, setting the tablet down.
He brushed her arm with two fingers, a touch meant to feel affectionate but that landed like control.
"Has a delivery boy come by?"
The question slid in without warning, sharp as a blade slipped between polite sentences. Miguel's tone remained soft, his eyes unreadable.
"A package… a white canvas. Details for a project I'm following. He should've left it here."
Naiara's mind took a step back. Her heart didn't.
The instinct to answer truthfully rose to her lips: yes, it came yesterday, but something stopped her: why ask himself?
Her father never handled deliveries personally. He had people for that. Always.
Why such interest in a blank canvas?
"No," she said quietly.
Cleared her throat. "No package."
A short, polished silence.
Miguel watched her a heartbeat too long, as though measuring some hidden space inside her. Then he smiled, the kind of smile that leaves a trace after it's gone.
"I see. Must've been a mistake. I'll check myself."
He kissed her cheek, barely touching, not enough to leave warmth, just enough to leave cold.
"You're beautiful when you work."
He left, taking the scent of his world with him. The door closed with a click that felt sharper than usual.
Naiara stood still, her palm still warm where he'd touched her.
She replayed the question, word by word; the pause before white canvas.
Too specific. Too direct. Too much like him and not like him at all.
She looked toward the back room. The canvas leaned against the wall, wrapped in glossy tissue.
"No," she murmured, almost to herself. "You're seeing ghosts."
But the ghost was there, and it took up more space than the light.
The day passed in fragments: two calls, a visit from Clara with a tray of pastries and a hug left halfway between intention and restraint.
When Clara left, the gallery turned back into an aquarium: transparent, silent, full of light bubbles.
Naiara stared at the canvas again. That fold of white tissue caught her eye like a signal.
She waited for sunset.
In the low light of the town, decisions always felt easier, or maybe just more inevitable.
She locked up with slow, deliberate gestures. Took the canvas in her arms, not large, but enough to fill them. The tissue paper rustled like sugar wrapping.
She chose to walk home, like the night by the port. She liked the idea of crossing Santa Rosa carrying something white, balancing the dark with an object.
The road followed the same narrow strip between bars and sea. The sky was turning bronze; the streetlights hesitated. The town held its breath between one sound and the next.
Her phone buzzed.
Clara: Dinner at mine tomorrow. NO excuses.
Another vibration: Stay alive, director.
Naiara smiled, pressed the mic to reply. Shifted the canvas against her side, one hand free.
"I'll be there. Prom…"
A sound: not the sea, not footsteps.
Tires biting asphalt. Headlights cutting too close, too fast. The canvas slipped from her grip; her foot was already on the white line of the crossing. Time folded.
A hand caught her arm with surgical precision, pulling her back in one sharp, controlled movement. The world took one step forward, she took three back.
The car sliced the air where her knee had been, wind hot on her skin.
They hit the wall together, her body and that hand, her breath and another's.
She heard it first: a breath, warm, steady, near… then a voice, cold and precise: "You trying to die over a text?"
No shouting. No wasted scolding. Just the question. And then that sound… a low hum, deep and rough, half a growl and half a sigh.
Not disgust. Not pity.
A sound of disapproval mixed with something dangerously close to admiration.
Like a predator studying something fragile and deciding which part to protect and which to ignore.
Naiara's heartbeat turned erratic, like her body had learned his rhythm instantly.
She looked up.
He was tall. The dark shirt stretched across a chest shaped by discipline, not vanity.
His eyes, she couldn't tell their color, looked at her without hurting her.
The hand that had caught her didn't tremble.
He released her slowly, like setting down something valuable.
He nudged the fallen canvas with his boot, picked it up, and handed it back.
Their fingers brushed.
She inhaled before she meant to, dizzy from it. He looked at her, and the air between them tightened.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He tilted his head slightly. Turned away. Walked two steps.
Then that sound again: lower, deeper, a hum that carried judgment and something almost human.
Desire or fear? She couldn't tell. She only knew she'd remember that sound.
The car that nearly hit her slowed fifty meters ahead, hesitated, then vanished.
Naiara stayed against the wall, clutching the canvas, counting the atoms of air until her heartbeat became human again.
She started walking. Didn't turn back.
But she felt, more than saw, that the man stayed still until she reached the other side of the road.
The villa welcomed her with the usual pattern of timed lights.
Inside, the house still smelled like yesterday's dinner, as if the days had agreed to resemble each other to make her believe in normality.
She climbed the stairs with the canvas in her arms. Closed the door. Laid the frame on the bed, unwrapped it.
The white surface filled the room like silence on paper.
She waited until her breathing calmed, then went to the window. Held the canvas against the lamp's light, tilted it.
Nothing.
Smooth. Perfect. Too perfect.
"What the hell are you hiding?" she muttered, half amused.
She tried again. Flipped the frame, scanned it like the back of a book. The wooden stretcher was new; the staples still silver.
Her gaze caught a faint dark line where there shouldn't have been one.
"Wait…"
She drew the curtain open, letting the blade of night light in.
Lifted the canvas into the glow. The surface brightened, and there, in the backlight, a faint rectangular shadow appeared, wedged between fabric and frame.
Her heart skipped.
She set the painting on the floor. Went to the bathroom, grabbed tweezers and a fruit knife. Knelt. Slid the blade along the inner joint, turned it carefully until the wood sighed.
The lower bar lifted a few millimeters. The canvas exhaled.
A thin plastic pouch slid out and landed on the floor with the sound of a single drop.
Naiara stared as if at a living thing.
Sealed. Transparent. Inside, white powder. Not much. Enough.
Her throat dried instantly.
Her fingers closed, then opened, as if trying to convince themselves.
She sat on the bed, legs numb. The world narrowed to one point: the pouch, the light, her breath.
She thought of Miguel, his collector's smile, his question about deliveries.
She thought of the canvas that had arrived without a sender. She thought of herself, caught between all of it: daughter, woman, accidental witness.
The phone buzzed on the nightstand, harmless as a bird at the window. Naiara didn't pick it up.
Without taking her eyes off the pouch, she let a single sentence escape her lips, calm, too calm: "Dad… what are you doing?"
The house stayed silent. Outside, the sea moved without a sound.
The pouch caught a shard of light and, for an instant, looked like an eye opening.