The studio was dustier than she expected.
It sat two floors above a bookstore that smelled like ink and basil, tucked into a side street few tourists ever found.
The sign had long since fallen off.
The windows were streaked with sun-warped grime.
And the door—wooden, warped, and worn—had a rusted knob that groaned when turned, like it wasn't used to being needed anymore.
Rafael hadn't opened it in over three years.
But today, he did.
For her.
---
The door creaked open, and the smell hit them first—
not of rot or mold,
but of old paper, paint, wood shavings, and… something else.
Something forgotten.
A scent like memory.
The room was still.
Heavy.
A skeleton of what once lived loudly.
Light filtered through the cracked window, casting long shadows on the floor.
The dust hung in the air like ghosts mid-breath.
And every object seemed paused—
caught between waiting and giving up.
Half-finished frames leaned against the wall,
tilted like exhausted dancers at the end of rehearsal.
Canvases were turned backward, their blank backs exposed, as if they were ashamed to be seen.
A broken easel slouched in the far corner like an old man who had watched too much happen and couldn't stand any longer.
On the paint-streaked table,
an old jar of dried crimson sat with its lid sealed shut by time, regret, and resignation.
---
Elisa stepped inside slowly.
Her boots echoed across the wood.
She didn't speak.
Didn't fill the air with false comfort.
She walked the perimeter with slow, reverent steps—
eyes drinking in the pieces of a past she hadn't lived,
but somehow understood.
A space not abandoned by force.
But by fear.
---
Rafael dropped his bag onto the chair in the center.
The chair wobbled, as if offended.
He stood still.
Frozen.
Like someone meeting a ghost he'd buried too well.
"…Say something," he muttered, voice barely audible.
"I don't want to disturb it," Elisa said.
He let out a weak laugh.
"It's already disturbed."
The laugh died quickly.
The silence that followed was not awkward.
It was sacred.
Like the silence that falls before prayer.
Or after loss.
---
She finally turned toward him.
Her voice was calm.
But her eyes held no softness.
"I want you to paint again."
He didn't flinch.
Didn't scoff.
Didn't pretend not to hear.
But he did look afraid.
Like the idea itself hurt to hold.
"You think it's that easy?" he asked.
"I don't think it's easy," she said.
"I just think it's time."
He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair.
"And what if it's awful?"
She shrugged gently.
"Then it's real."
---
He looked toward the canvas mounted on the wall.
Blank.
Stretched.
Waiting.
Like it always had been.
Like it would always be.
"I don't even know where to start," he whispered.
Elisa didn't answer.
She reached into her bag.
Pulled out the sketchbook.
Hers now.
But never only hers.
She flipped it open, careful with the fragile clips and warped pages, and found the one she had bookmarked in silence that morning.
A page her mother never finished.
Lines faint.
Blurry.
Water-streaked and stubborn.
Just a window...
part of the Duomo.
Outlined but incomplete.
A whisper of stained glass.
Just enough to imagine what might've been.
She handed it to him.
"Start here."
---
Rafael took the sketch.
His thumb brushed the paper—
paused at the edge of a pencil line.
The lines were imperfect.
But they lived.
And they felt like her.
Not Elisa.
Not him.
Her mother.
Like she had left the door open just wide enough for someone else to walk through.
"Your mother believed in Beauty," he murmured.
Elisa nodded.
"She believed in chasing it," she said. "Even if she never caught it."
He looked up.
"And you?"
"I believe in asking people to try."
---
He turned away.
Walked to an old cabinet near the window.
Pulled open a drawer.
Inside—
a single brush.
Fine-tipped.
Wrapped in cloth.
The one he used to sign every finished piece.
He unwrapped it slowly, as if afraid it would crumble.
But it didn't.
It held.
Just like he had.
---
Then, after a long pause,
he crouched beside a battered wooden box.
Dug through old tubes of paint.
Most were cracked, hardened, unsalvageable.
But one—
one tube of red—
still felt soft under his fingers.
He turned it over.
No label.
No name.
But when he pressed the metal gently,
a line of crimson bloomed onto the palette.
There.
Waiting.
---
He held the brush over the paint.
Paused.
His hand hovered too long.
Elisa said nothing.
Did nothing.
She just waited.
The way you wait for someone to decide for themselves.
And then...
He dipped the brush.
Lifted it.
Turned toward the canvas.
With one slow stroke,
he painted the beginning of the Duomo's window frame.
Just a single corner.
Just the edge of a forgotten curve.
Not finished.
Not even formed.
But there.
A beginning.
---
Elisa stepped beside him.
She didn't speak.
But the line he had painted—
that single stroke—
spoke for both of them.
It said:
"I'm still here."
It said:
"It matters."
It said:
"You didn't kill it."
---
Rafael exhaled.
Took one step back.
"I'm going to finish this," he whispered.
Elisa looked at him.
Her voice was a single word, soft as breath.
"Promise?"
He met her eyes. They were tired. But alive. Clear.
"I'll finish it," he said.
"But only if you're here to see it."
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't look right away.
She already knew.
When she did, it read:
____________•••____________
One Plus
You are one plus away from something only you could bring back to life.
____________•••____________