The morning sun spilled through the shutters, painting long stripes across the narrow room. Ava lay still for a moment, listening.
The low hum of scooters outside, a vendor calling out in Italian, the scent of espresso drifting up from the café below, it was all foreign, yet oddly comforting.
She closed her eyes and breathed it in, letting the warmth of it settle somewhere deep in her chest. This wasn't home, at least not yet but it was the kind of place that made her wonder if she could belong to it.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.
8:17 a.m. — Internship, Day One.
She sat up slowly, running her fingers through her curls, still tangled from sleep. Her reflection in the mirror looked equal parts terrified and thrilled and her blue eyes as they were, wondered what Rome has to offer to her.
"You made it," she whispered to herself, almost like a reminder.
Ava had dreamed of this for years, the streets of Rome, the chance to work at an international house of art, even if it was unpaid. The emails, the waiting, the visa stress, it had all felt endless. And now she was here. Really here.
She dressed quickly, a linen blouse, loose trousers, simple gold hoops and slipped her notebook and camera into her tote, she was one to alw. When she reached the doorway, she paused, glancing back at the small apartment.
The sunlight brushed against the chipped walls and the single vase of daisies Chiara had placed by the window. Chiara has always loved collecting flowers and it's been 2 weeks of Ava's arrival but she has not failed to bring a bouquet of flower home every time. Everything about rome felt temporary, fragile, like something she might dream about later and wonder if it ever truly existed.
The streets of Trastevere were already awake when she stepped out. Old cobblestones, balconies draped with flowers, laundry lines swaying gently above. The city had a rhythm, slow yet sure, as if it had nothing to prove.
She clutched her camera, the one thing she'd saved up for all through university, memories last longer, Ava would say, and let herself get lost for a bit scrolling through the images before the bus ride to the internship office.
The bus jolted through narrow streets, past weathered stone walls covered in ivy, and piazzas where people lingered like they had all the time in the world.
Ava found herself smiling at the way strangers greeted each other, how even the smallest exchanges carried warmth. There was something so different about it, the way people lived in the open here, unhurried, unashamed.
Her internship wasn't glamorous but it was what she had wished for, at least the bit of it. An art house, two floors above a gelato shop that always smelled like heaven. The space smelled faintly of paint and cinnamon. Her supervisor barely looked up when she introduced herself, only waved toward a stack of brushes and said, "Tidy these. We'll talk after lunch."
So she did.
Hours blurred into the sound of talking and walking as visitors came in, the clinking of coffee cups, the echo of laughter drifting from the courtyard below. Her Italian was functional, not fluent, but she worked carefully, double-checking every word she spoke. Still, every so often, her gaze drifted toward the window, the rooftops, the bell tower, the way sunlight turned everything gold for no reason at all.
It was strange, she thought, how beautiful the world could be when you stopped rushing through it.
At lunch, she sat alone on the stone steps of a nearby fountain, unwrapping a sandwich she didn't quite like but pretended to enjoy.
A couple laughed nearby, their heads close, their gestures soft and familiar. A group of kids chased pigeons, their laughter echoing across the square. And somewhere behind her, a street violinist began to play.
The melody was slow, haunting, like something she'd heard in a dream. Ava turned instinctively toward the music, eyes searching — and that's when she saw her.
A woman in a red coat, standing by a vintage bookstore, head tilted back as she smiled at the violinist's tune. The kind of smile that seemed to know something the world didn't. Her presence seemed to still the air around her. People passed, pigeons scattered, but she remained a point of quiet gravity.
Ava couldn't look away. There was something magnetic about her, the poise, the confidence, the ease. She clapped softly when the song ended, then disappeared down a side street before Ava could even think of following.
Ava blinked, almost like she'd imagined her.
Then she looked down at her camera, hesitated, and raised it. The photo she captured wasn't perfect, a little tilted, the light too bright, but it made her heart race a little.
She didn't know it yet, but that fleeting moment, that stranger in red, would be a part of her best memories
That night, Rome hummed softly beneath her window.
Distant laughter, the faint strum of a guitar, the soft rush of wind through the open shutters. Ava sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, laptop open, camera connected. The little green light blinked as the photos loaded, one by one.
She scrolled lazily through them, the fountain, the pigeons, the shadows on cobblestones, all the fragments of a city that didn't yet know her name.
And then came the photo.
The woman in the red coat.
Even on screen, the color burned brighter than the rest. The photo wasn't perfect, a little blurred at the edges, too much light in the corner, but there was something magnetic about her posture. Poised, self-assured, unhurried. She looked like she belonged wherever she stood.
Ava leaned closer. The woman's hair caught the light in a way that made her seem almost unreal, like she'd been placed there by some invisible hand. Her eyes, half-shadowed, held a quiet mischief, as if she knew she was being watched and didn't mind.
A voice came from the doorway.
Her roommate, Chiara, towel in hand, damp hair sticking to her shoulders.
"You're still working?" she asked in accented English.
"Just sorting through some pictures," Ava said, her tone casual.
Chiara peered at the screen, tilting her head. "Oh, she's beautiful," she said with a smile. "Very Roman — you can tell by how she stands. Like the city belongs to her."
Ava laughed softly, shaking her head. "I'm not a photographer," she said. "I just… like remembering things as they are."
Chiara shrugged, reaching for a glass of water. "Then maybe she's someone you're meant to remember."
Ava smiled faintly but didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on the image, the red coat, the curve of light, the stillness that felt deliberate. Something about it tugged at her, a thread she couldn't name.
When Chiara disappeared into her room, Ava stayed where she was, chin propped on her knees. She uploaded the photo into a folder labeled Day 1, Rome, then hovered over the screen for a moment longer before closing the laptop.
But the city refused to sleep. Somewhere outside, a Vespa roared, a couple argued, laughter floated up through the narrow street. Ava lay back, watching the ceiling shadows dance with the passing headlights.
For a long time, she tried to think of something else, home, her parents, her friends back in London, but her thoughts kept circling back to that flash of red in the crowd.
Who was she?
Ava sat up again, unable to resist. She reopened the photo.
The woman looked the same, composed, radiant, untouchable. Yet now Ava noticed the faint crease by her brow, this woman presented everything Ava wanted to be hence the strong admire, she loved it. the way her fingers curled around her, tiny hints of something human beneath the elegance.
Outside, the bells of Trastevere rang softly.
Midnight.
Ava whispered under her breath,
"Who are you?"
And somewhere across the city, Sofia, the woman in the red coat, stood on her balcony, a glass of wine in hand, watching the same moon, unaware she'd already been captured.
She exhaled into the cool air, her phone lighting briefly beside her with an unread message. Her smile faltered just slightly, then returned.
The city below shimmered with secrets, and for the briefest moment, it felt as though someone, somewhere, was watching.