191 — Estela POV
I slip into the house and quietly lock the door behind me. The soft click echoes too loud in the empty space.
"Dee, I'm back," I call, kicking off my shoes and padding through the hallway.
No answer.
I make my way toward her personal art room without thinking—half expecting her to be there, paintbrush in hand, brow furrowed in focus.
But when I open the door, the room is empty.
Of course. I forgot. She flew out for Raffaele's birthday. I knew that. But I still half-expected her to be here.
She's always here. This room is hers in every way. Her scent lingers, faint beneath the sharpness of paint and varnish. The curtains are drawn wide, letting the afternoon sun spill across canvases propped against the walls and easels.
Some finished, some half-done—brushstrokes frozen mid-thought.
I step inside, barefoot, and smile faintly.
It's always the same.
