Santa Rosa, northern coast of Palermo.
Morning came softly, carried by the hush of the sea and the scent of coffee drifting through the house.
Naiara woke before the alarm. The light seeped through the curtains, warm and golden.
For a heartbeat she didn't remember where she was. Then the high ceiling, the pale beams, and the sea framed by the window brought it back.
The villa. The new life.
She sat up slowly, her bare feet touching the cold floor. On the nightstand, her phone blinked with a message from her mother:
In the kitchen. Making fresh pastry. Coffee's waiting.
A faint smile touched her lips.
Her mother could never sit still. Even with a staff of housekeepers, she cooked herself, kneaded the dough herself, stirred every pot as if the world depended on her sauce.
Naiara went downstairs, her steps quiet on the marble. Halfway down the corridor, she froze.
The living room window was slightly open.
The curtain swayed gently, letting in a slice of cool air.
She clearly remembered closing it last night.
For a second, her body went rigid.
Then she breathed out and shook her head.
The wind, maybe. Or someone careless.
In the kitchen, her mother was covered in flour, humming while she rolled the dough.
"Morning, darling! Did you sleep well?"
"Enough."
"I'm going to the market later, but you probably have the gallery to take care of, right?"
"Yes. Clara's coming this morning, she has the photo proofs."
"Clara?"
"The photographer from yesterday."
Her mother smiled. "Ah, so you're already making friends. I like that."
Naiara poured herself some coffee and sat at the counter, watching her.
Her mother moved with natural grace, unbothered by life's weight.
Naiara, instead, always felt like a creature half-ready to run, even when there was no one to run from.
"Did your father message you?"
"No. But I don't think he's coming back today."
"There are always business deals with him. Maybe it's better this way, the house stays peaceful."
Naiara nodded.
The coffee was hot but left a bitter taste.
Outside, the sea looked calm. Too calm.
By the time she reached the gallery, the sun was already high.
The morning light reflected on the large glass doors, making it impossible to see inside.
She turned the key in the lock, a clean, metallic click that felt reassuring.
The scent of new paint and salt filled the air.
Clara was already there, sitting on the counter with two cream pastries and a radiant smile.
"Good morning! I brought reinforcements."
"You're early."
"Always. And… look." She raised a stack of photos. "Couldn't wait to show you."
The pictures were beautiful. Light cutting through air, reflections on walls, Clara's delicate signature in the corner. Each shot captured a different breath of the space.
"You caught exactly what I wanted," Naiara said, touching one print. "The kind of light that doesn't belong to anyone."
Clara tilted her head. "Light that doesn't belong to anyone?"
"It's the one that hides in corners, between things. The one that stays when everything else leaves."
Clara smiled. "You talk like the rooms listen to you."
"Sometimes they do."
They shared a brief look, a quiet understanding that needed no words.
Then Clara clapped her hands. "Alright, philosopher. Can I start setting up the backdrop for the main shots?"
"Go ahead. Need a hand?"
"No, I've learned to survive on my own."
The hours passed light and easy: tape, cameras, the faint music from Clara's old speaker.
For the first time in weeks, Naiara's mind felt clear.
It was around noon when the delivery arrived. A courier stepped in, carrying a rectangular box.
"Delivery for Miss Moreno."
"For me?"
"Yes. No sender listed, just your name and this address."
She signed, thanked him, and set the package on the table.
Clara leaned over, curious. "What's inside? Looks like a painting."
"I have no idea."
They peeled away the tape carefully.
Inside was a single white canvas, perfectly wrapped, untouched. No frame. No note. No mark.
"Conceptual art?" Clara teased. "Maybe it's your first exhibit piece."
Naiara smiled faintly. "Or a shipping mistake."
"Or a secret message," Clara said dramatically, then laughed.
Naiara laughed too but it caught in her throat.
There was something oddly cold about that canvas.
She brushed her fingertips against it.
Smooth. Too smooth. Like it had never been touched by anyone at all.
She set it aside, behind the counter, and went back to work. But her focus never fully returned.
Every now and then, her eyes drifted to that spotless surface, that perfect silence.
Clara left around three, kissing her on the cheek and promising to return the next day.
"If I can, I'll bring good wine. We'll celebrate properly."
"I'll hold you to that."
"Bad idea, never trust the one who brings the wine!"
Clara's laughter lingered in the air long after the door closed.
Naiara stayed still, the silence settling again like dust. She walked to the window.
Outside, the sea shimmered between buildings; the wind brushed sand across the street in golden streaks.
Everything seemed perfectly normal.
And yet… something in the air had shifted.
A scent. A rhythm. A pulse she couldn't name.
She rubbed her arms as if she were cold.
One heartbeat. Then nothing.
For a while, she simply stood there, listening.
Only the sea answered.
She locked up the gallery at sunset, the keys chiming softly.
Turning back toward the empty street, she caught herself holding her breath.
There was no one there.
And yet, for the first time in months, she felt her skin tighten, as if somewhere, unseen, someone had just whispered her name.