“What do you want to write?” asked Clara, Evelyn’s new assistant, as she found her sitting alone in the studio with a blank sheet of paper and a black ink pen.

Evelyn offered a faint smile, her eyes still fixed on the page.

“Something that doesn’t need to be read by anyone.”

Clara didn’t ask further. She knew that when Evelyn fell into silence like this, it meant she was diving deep—into a place only she knew, where the wounds were buried and survival was never a guarantee but a choice.

Night fell gently over Paris. Evelyn’s studio was lit only by a floor lamp in the corner, casting a...