Three years earlier. Santa Rosa, northern coast of Palermo.
The sea greeted them with a heavy silence, as if it were holding its breath.
The Morenos' car glided along the coastal road and stopped in front of their new villa: glass, pale stone, and a terrace that seemed to float above the water.
Behind the automatic gate, the garden was obsessively tidy: low olive trees, rosemary bushes, and a stone path ending directly on the sand.
Naiara stepped out first. The wind tangled her dark hair, carrying the scent of salt and basil.
She turned toward the house. It was perfect. Almost too perfect.
Just like everything her father bought.
"Welcome home, Nay."
Her mother's voice was soft, the kind of tenderness that sometimes carried more strength than any command.
She already had her sleeves rolled up and a basket of vegetables in her arms. "I'm cooking tonight. This kitchen is too beautiful to let anyone else touch it."
Her father didn't answer. He stood there, looking at the sea, hands in his pockets, the gold of his watch catching the sunset.
"Don't get too attached," he murmured. "We might not stay long."
Naiara didn't ask why. She'd learned that questions with him were useless, answers always came halfway, and the rest was silence.
She just nodded, though deep down she knew this house felt like the first place she could finally breathe.
Inside, the villa was wide and bright, modern but not cold: sand-colored walls, pale floors, and the sea visible from every window.
She pressed her palm to the glass. Smooth, cool. Beyond it, the waves.
Her body performed its usual silent checklist: doors, windows, keys, exits.
Three. Two on the sides, one at the back.
Only after counting them did her heartbeat slow.
From the kitchen, her mother called, "Nay, come taste the sauce!" She went downstairs.
The counter was a painting of tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil. The scent hit her like a soft memory.
"Don't you miss small kitchens?" she teased.
Her mother laughed. "Never. In this one, I can dance."
Naiara tasted from the spoon she held out. "Perfect."
"Then you set the table. No staff tonight. Just us."
It was a quiet hour, one of those you don't realize you'll miss until it's gone.
After dinner, her father called from the living room.
"Tomorrow I want to show you the gallery."
Naiara looked up. "My gallery?"
"Yours, yes. It's ready. The contract's in your name. Consider it a fresh start."
He'd told her months ago he was opening a space for her… a gift, he'd said.
A gift that felt like a chain.
The next morning, the black car drove them into the small coastal town of Santa Rosa.
It was tiny but alive: ceramic shops, white awnings, the smell of bread.
The gallery was just off the main street, in a restored cream-colored building with large windows.
On the shining metal plaque, the name read: Moreno Gallery.
"It's beautiful," Naiara whispered, running her fingers over the glass.
Inside, the pale floor reflected the light of the sea.
"Did you design it like this?"
"I just paid for it," her father replied. "It's up to you to give it a soul."
Naiara stepped in.
The scent of fresh paint and new wood reminded her of the restoration studios where she'd once worked.
For the first time in months, she felt almost… right.
"We'll open with a photography exhibition," she said, more to herself than to him.
Her father looked distracted, already deep in a phone call. "Do what you like, as long as it works."
She nodded, even though she had no idea what "works" meant to him.
While she checked the lights, a sound came from the door.
She turned.
A young woman entered, carrying a camera and a bundle of folders. Her brown hair was tied messily, her dress dusted by the sun.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," she said with a warm smile. "I heard you needed someone to photograph the setup."
"Who told you that?"
"The lighting technician. I've worked with him before. I'm Clara Valenti."
Naiara studied her, surprised, yet curious.
Clara had one of those presences that filled a room quietly, like sunlight sliding through curtains.
"I'm not sure the position still exists," Naiara replied, glancing toward her father.
But he was already walking out, phone pressed to his ear. "Handle it yourself."
Clara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mind if I take a few test shots? Just so you can see my work."
"Of course. Go ahead."
As Clara moved around the space, the late morning light streamed through the windows, painting golden reflections on the floor.
"You've got a sharp eye," Naiara said.
"It's my father's fault," Clara laughed. "He was a sailor. He taught me every light hides something."
Naiara smiled, a real smile, the first in a long time. "Then we have that in common. I'm always trying to see what's hidden."
They didn't talk much, but something quiet and genuine settled between them.
Clara had that rare ease that made closeness feel safe, not dangerous.
After a while, Clara turned off her camera. "I'll bring the test prints tomorrow, if that's okay."
"Sure. Morning's fine."
"Perfect."
At the door, she turned one last time. "It's a beautiful place. Doesn't feel new, feels like it was waiting for someone."
Naiara watched her leave. Those words stayed with her longer than she wanted them to.
That evening, the villa glowed under the amber light of sunset.
Her mother had cooked pasta with eggplant, and the scent drifted all the way to the gate.
"How did it go?" she asked, draining the pasta.
"Good. I met a photographer. We might work together."
"A woman? Even better. You need someone to talk to."
They ate on the terrace, the sea stretching before them, the sky turning violet.
Her father hadn't come home, just a short text: Meeting moved up. Don't wait for me.
Her mother sighed. "Your father and his meetings. Some things never change."
Naiara smiled faintly, though her mind was elsewhere. She kept thinking about Clara, about her voice, her warmth, her way of standing close without crossing the line.
After dinner, she sat on the low wall by the garden, knees drawn to her chest.
The sea had a different sound at night: deeper, secretive.
She thought of Seville. Of what she had left behind. Of the year when love had turned to fear, and fear to pain.
Since then, no one had touched her.
Not out of choice, not really but because her body no longer allowed it.
It had learned to flinch before her mind could think.
A car passed slowly on the road outside. It didn't stop, but its headlights brushed across her face.
A shiver ran through her.
The feeling of being watched, then nothing. Just the sea again.
She went back inside.
Her mother was tidying the kitchen, humming softly.
"Tomorrow, come to the market with me?"
"Maybe later. I want to spend some time at the gallery."
"Alright. Just wear your hat, the sun here burns through souls."
They went upstairs almost together.
Naiara closed the door and stood a moment before the mirror.
She undressed slowly, letting her shirt fall over the chair.
The lamp cast soft, warm lines across her skin. She turned slightly, just enough to see her reflection from the side.
A long, pale scar ran from the middle of her back to her left hip, a lightning bolt carved into flesh.
She brushed her fingers close to it, without touching. Every time she looked, it felt like remembering someone else's story.
She closed her eyes.
Outside, the sea kept breathing against the shore.