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My hands remember things my brain forgot—the way to hold the brush loose for broad strokes, the way to mix color on instinct rather than thought, the way time disappears when you stop trying to control what's happening on the canvas and just let it happen.
The coastline takes shape in front of me. Impressionistic. Loose. More feeling than accuracy.
That's fine.
That's enough.
I don't need it to be a masterpiece. I just need it to be mine again.
Time slips.
The world narrows.
I stop hearing the crowd. Stop noticing the conversations in French drifting past me. Stop thinking about Everett behind those glass doors back at the villa, sealed off in his office like a man who doesn't know how to exist in the same space as his own honeymoon.
When a voice comes from beside me, I nearly drop the brush.
"That is very good for someone who looks like she's holding a grenade instead of a paintbrush."
I look up.
A man stands a few feet away, takeaway coffee in hand, watching me with easy, unhurried attention that suggests he stopped walking a while ago and I simply didn't notice.
He's handsome in a very European, very unfair sort of way. Dark hair. Olive skin. Linen shirt rolled at the sleeves. Somewhere around forty, maybe, with the kind of quiet confidence that suggests he's used to being listened to.
"Sorry," I say, and I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for the startled look on my face or for the fact that I've apparently been blocking foot traffic with my art supplies like a feral woman who forgot other people exist.
His mouth curves. "Don't apologize. I interrupted."
He steps a little closer, tilting his head at the canvas.
"The light is good," he says. "You understand how it moves on water."
The way he says it, not casually, not as flattery, tells me he actually knows what he’s talking about.
"Thank you," I say.
"How long have you been painting?"
The question lands harder than it should.
"Today?" I laugh once under my breath. "About two hours."
His brows lift slightly.
"Before today," I clarify, "it had been three years."
He studies me for a second with something that isn't pity and isn't curiosity. Closer to recognition.
Then he reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a card. Thick stock. Simple font. A name and an address.
Gabriel Amaury. Galerie Amaury.
"If you keep going," he says, "come find me."
I take the card. "I'm just—this is just for fun. I'm not—"
"I know what it looks like when someone is just having fun." His smile widens slightly. "That is not what this is."
