Four years had passed since Laura first arrived in Florence carrying nothing but a single suitcase and a heart that felt too damaged to be useful. Time had not erased the pain, but it had softened its edges, filing it down into something quieter—something that no longer screamed every time she breathed.

Her residency occupied a converted stone building tucked behind a narrow street that smelled of rain and old paint. The studio windows faced a courtyard where ivy crept up ancient walls, stubborn and alive. Laura spent most of her days there, sleeves rolled up, hair tied carelessly at the nape of her neck, fingers permanently stained with pigment....