She found him on the edge of Piazza Santo Spirito.
Not painting.
Not sketching.
Just… sitting.
Back against a crumbling ochre wall, dappled in afternoon light.
Legs stretched lazily in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other.
A half-drunk bottle of cheap mineral water by his side.
Eyes closed,
Face tilted to the sun—
like someone pretending they weren't fading.
The breeze moved lazily through the square. A child's laughter echoed. Pigeons pecked between cobblestones. The nearby café clinked with cutlery and espresso cups. But Rafael stayed still, as though detached from it all. As though he didn't belong to this world anymore.
---
Elisa approached slowly. Carefully.
Each step hesitant.
Measured.
As though too loud a footfall might shatter him.
But he opened his eyes before she could speak.
No surprise in them.
Just a soft, tired knowing.
"You found something," he said, voice hoarse from too much silence.
She blinked, caught off guard.
"…How do you know?"
"Your steps are different today."
A pause.
He gave her a faint, almost-smile. "You're walking like someone with purpose."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she lowered herself to the ground beside him.
Close, but not touching.
A respectful nearness.
A silent offering.
The stone beneath them was still warm from the sun.
The scent of olive oil and woodsmoke drifted from the nearby trattoria.
Rafael waited—for a question.
Elisa waited—for a lie.
Neither came.
The silence between them stretched. Not uncomfortable, but weighted.
Like two people waiting for the same page to turn.
---
Finally, she asked, softly:
"Why did you really quit painting?"
He didn't look at her.
Didn't blink.
"I told you."
"You told me what burned," she said.
"Not what broke."
That made him flinch. Barely. But she saw it.
Saw the ghost flicker in his jawline, the shadow behind his eyes.
Still, he said nothing.
So she said it for him.
"You were famous, weren't you?"
Her voice didn't carry judgment—just recognition.
A pause. Then, a hollow chuckle.
"In some circles."
"You stopped overnight."
"I stopped after Florence."
---
The air around them changed.
Not colder.
Just heavier.
Like old smoke hanging in forgotten fabric.
Like the moment before thunder.
She waited.
And he—he gave in, quietly.
---
"There was an exhibit," he said. "Four years ago. My biggest yet."
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes searching the sky.
A bird traced the clouds above them.
"A gallery in Oltrarno had agreed to show six of my paintings—my real paintings. Not commissioned portraits. Not commercial work. Just raw pieces. Stuff from the inside. Ugly, vulnerable, honest."
He paused, lips pressed thin.
His fingers unconsciously rubbed together—stained even now, even after all this time, with the memory of pigment.
"The night before the opening, I stayed late to light the room. The bulbs were bad. The gallery was ancient. Everything creaked when I moved. I remember the smell of dust. The sweat sticking to my back. The way the lights buzzed too loud. I was nervous. Rushing. I used a cheap extension cord."
A breath.
Thin.
"There was a short circuit. A fire."
He turned to look at her.
His eyes were steady now.
"Two rooms burned."
Her breath caught.
"The gallery?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"No," he said,
"My work."
---
Five paintings—ashes.
The sixth one—Elisa would find out later—survived.
Only half-burned.
Charred like memory.
Like a scar.
But he never touched a brush again.
---
"They told me it was electrical," he said. "That it wasn't my fault. But I knew better."
His voice wasn't bitter.
Just... hollow.
"I'd pushed too far. Stayed too long. Cut corners. Rushed things I shouldn't have. I killed what I loved most."
His eyes dropped to his fingers again, staring at them as if they no longer belonged to him.
Hands that once created.
Now hands that only carried guilt.
---
Elisa's voice came softer this time, as if afraid of scaring the story away.
"And that's why you sketch on street corners now? Like it doesn't matter anymore?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't nod.
Didn't deny it.
"You're still painting," she said. "You just pretend it's disposable."
The words lingered.
Like smoke from that fire, still caught in his lungs.
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out her mother's sketchbook—creased at the corners, weathered by time.
She flipped to the page from the Duomo—the unfinished drawing.
Gentle pencil strokes interrupted by the tremble of illness.
"She never got to finish this," Elisa said.
"Her hand shook too much. But before that, she never stopped drawing."
Rafael looked at the sketch.
Then at her.
"You think that's brave?"
"I think…" Elisa hesitated. "I think it's what kept her alive longer than she was supposed to be."
---
The sun shifted.
Their shadows lengthened against the wall.
Another hour had passed without them noticing.
Then Rafael whispered:
"I don't think I know how to paint like that anymore."
"Like what?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Like it matters."
---
Elisa didn't argue.
Didn't try to inspire.
Instead, she did something else.
Something small.
But irreversible.
She took out a pencil.
And on the blank page opposite her mother's sketch—
she drew one single line.
Crooked.
Shaky.
Ugly.
But hers.
"I don't know how to draw," she said honestly.
He watched in silence.
"But if this is what she wanted me to do… then maybe I'm not supposed to be good at it."
Her eyes didn't waver.
"Maybe I'm just supposed to finish it."
She looked at him—straight, without flinching.
"So maybe you're not supposed to paint perfectly again."
"Then what?" he asked, genuinely.
"Maybe you're just supposed to start."
---
He didn't speak.
Didn't nod.
Didn't smile.
But his hand moved.
Slowly.
And when he reached for his satchel—
when he opened the flap,
when his fingers brushed the soft cloth of a forgotten brush hidden within—
she knew.
She knew he was listening.
And then Her phone buzzed.
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from helping someone start again.
____________•••____________
She smiled.
And this time,
he did too.
Just a little.
The sun leaned low on the rooftops.
And for the first time in years,
Rafael held the brush not like a burden—
but like a key.