Morning in Rome always began with sound.
Church bells, clattering cups, the impatient buzz of scooters outside. But for once, Ava woke before all of it.
The early light was pale and silvery, spilling gently across the floorboards. She lay there for a while, watching how it slowly warmed the room. Her camera sat on the bedside table, its strap tangled like a sleeping animal.
She hadn't planned to think about Sofia, the woman in red, but she had. Again.
A flicker of movement down a narrow street, laughter echoing from somewhere, and that same flash of red disappearing into the crowd.
When she came back to her reality, she couldn't help but wonder if she was ever going to see the woman in red again. Her chest ached in a way she couldn't name, in that moment her phone buzzed beside her pillow.
Mum.
Ava smiled softly and answered. "Hey Mum."
Her mother's voice was warm, tired, familiar. "Ava, sweetheart! We were just talking about you. Your dad said to call before you get too busy saving the world."
"I don't think translating old travel articles counts as saving the world," Ava said, smiling.
From the background came the low rumble of her father's voice. "Let me talk to her, Julie."
"Hi, Dad."
"Hi, sunshine," he said, and she could almost picture him, still in his old robe, standing by the kitchen window, coffee in hand. "How's my Roman explorer? Still getting lost?"
Ava laughed softly. "Every day. But I think I'm getting better at it."
"That's my girl," he said, his voice softening. "You sound good. You sound… lighter."
She hesitated. "Yeah. I think I am."
There was a brief silence, comfortable at first, then her mother's voice, careful.
"Your dad and I went to the park yesterday. We saw the, the spot near the lake."
Ava closed her eyes. She didn't have to ask which one.
Her father continued, quieter now. "The tree's gotten big. You remember the one we planted for him?"
Her throat tightened. "Yeah."
"Your mum says it's taller than the both of us now," he said, trying to sound amused, but his voice wavered. "You should see it when you come home."
Ava nodded, though they couldn't see her. "I will."
Her mother exhaled softly. "We didn't mean to upset you, love. We just… thought you'd want to know."
"I do," Ava said quickly, forcing a smile into her tone. "I really do."
They moved on to safer topics; food, work, how Chiara was "probably a lovely girl." Her dad asked if she was eating enough. Her mum told her about the neighbors getting a new dog.
But underneath it all was that ache.
That quiet space between every word.
Her brother's name, Eli, never spoken, but always there.
When the call ended, Ava stayed still for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The room was suddenly too quiet.
She got up quickly, showered, dressed, anything to push the heaviness away. Chiara's side of the apartment was already empty, her coffee mug rinsed in the sink, her faint citrus perfume still lingering in the air.
Ava tied her hair into a loose bun and caught her reflection in the mirror, eyes a little red, lips pressed tight. She forced a smile.
"Not today," she whispered. "You're not ruining today."
By the time Ava reached the International House of Art, the sun was already high, gilding the marble facade in pale gold.
The building always seemed slightly intimidating, too elegant for her, too old for her smallness. Inside, light poured through arched windows, catching on glass sculptures and half-finished canvases.
She walked past the interns' desks toward her small corner, setting down her tote. The air smelled of turpentine and espresso, an oddly pleasant mix she was beginning to associate with this place.
Her tasks were simple: sorting press clippings, drafting translations, updating exhibition schedules. It wasn't the creative role she'd imagined when she first saw "art internship in Rome," but it was something.
The morning passed quietly, the steady hum of typing punctuated by the occasional shuffle of shoes or laughter from the curators upstairs.
Then, around noon, the mood shifted.
Whispers. Straightened postures. A ripple of energy that passed through the hall like static.
Ava looked up just in time to see him enter.
Leonardo Rossi.
He didn't walk so much as glide, effortless, deliberate. Every head turned slightly as he passed. He wore a charcoal suit that looked too sharp for an art gallery, and an expression that suggested the world existed solely for him to observe and critique.
His reputation had already made its way through the intern grapevine, whispered in elevators, over coffee runs, and in late-night group chats. Leonardo Rossi: the prodigy curator with a side career in cybersecurity, because apparently brilliance wasn't enough in just one field. Youngest ever to lead a national exhibition. Genius, they said. Perfectionist, they warned. And, according to anyone who'd worked with him… an absolute nightmare.
He was talking to one of the senior curators, voice smooth and measured, in that elegant Italian cadence that made everything sound like poetry, even complaints.
Ava tried not to look, but failed. There was something magnetic about people who carried that kind of self-assurance, irritatingly magnetic.
He moved through the gallery like he'd built it himself, stopping briefly to examine a painting.
Then, for a split second, his gaze turned toward her.
It was quick. Barely a glance. But something about it made her spine straighten.
He said something to the curator, quiet, brief and they both looked her way. Then Leonardo turned back, continued his inspection, and Ava suddenly felt ridiculous for caring.
"Don't be weird," she muttered under her breath, typing faster.
But she couldn't shake it. That look. Not curious nor kind. More like, assessing.
When he finally walked toward her desk, her pulse jumped.
"Buongiorno," he said, his English accented but perfect. "You must be… the new intern?"
Ava looked up, startled. "Yes. Ava."
He nodded once. "You're with editorial, yes?"
"Uh, yes. Translations mostly."
"Good," he said, scanning the papers on her desk without asking. "Then perhaps you can tell them to stop translating our event press releases like instruction manuals. Art should breathe. Even in English."
Ava blinked, unsure if he was joking. "I'll… keep that in mind."
He gave the faintest hint of a smile, not warm, not cold, just amused. "Please do."
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
It took her a full minute to realize she was still holding her breath.
The rest of the day dragged. Every time she tried to focus, her thoughts wandered, first to her brother, then to Leonardo's tone, then to her own reaction.
By the time the afternoon light softened across the marble floor, she was exhausted, emotionally and otherwise.
She was packing up her things when she heard his voice again.
He was standing near the door, talking to another curator. His coat was draped casually over one arm, his expression unreadable.
Then, as he turned to leave, his gaze caught hers again.
Ava froze, her notebook halfway into her bag.
Leonardo tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "You stare like an artist," he said in that infuriatingly calm tone. "But I'm guessing you're not one."
The words hit sharper than she expected.
She managed a small, polite smile. "Just trying to figure out what makes people like you so sure of themselves."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then, a soft laugh. Low, almost approving.
"Confidence," he said, buttoning his coat. "You should try it sometime."
And before she could respond, he was gone.
Ava exhaled slowly, heat rising in her chest. Something in between anger and embarrassment.
She slung her tote over her shoulder and stepped outside. The late afternoon air was cool, heavy with the scent of rain and blooming jasmine. She crossed the cobblestone square, her footsteps echoing faintly.
She didn't look back. But the moment replayed in her mind, his tone, his smirk, his eyes that seemed to see right through her.
She hated him already.
Or at least, that's what she told herself.
Still, somewhere in the corner of her mind, she heard her mother's voice from that morning "You sound lighter."
But she didn't feel light now.
She felt seen. And she wasn't sure she liked that at all.