The plane landed in Florence in the afternoon.
The sunlight was warm. The air carried hints of olive trees and espresso.
Stanley grabbed a taxi and headed straight for the Florence Academy of Fine Arts.
When he arrived, he stood beside the stone wall and watched students coming and going through the gates.
There was something on their faces he hadn't seen in a very long time.
The look of people doing something they loved.
Delia used to have that expression too. Whenever she painted.
The corners of her lips would lift slightly. Her eyes would shine. Somewhere along the way, that expression disappeared.
Stanley waited outside for hours. Then, sometime after 4 p.m., he finally saw her.
Delia walked out through the gates wearing a navy hoodie. Her hair was tied into a low ponytail. A
