I stand there, staring at the painting in silence. The image looking back at me is so detailed, so painstakingly crafted, it feels more like a reflection than a painting. Every brushstroke on the canvas captures me perfectly, down to the smallest freckle on my cheek—even the little scar on my chin that I got on the playground as a child. The way it’s so detailed, one would have to have studied my face for a very long time to capture every detail he has. My eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, and there’s a look in them I don’t recognize—vulnerability mixed with longing. I can’t tell if it’s meant to reflect me or Alessandro’s perception of me, but it sends a shiver down my spine.
“And you’d think one would be enough, no?” Maria says, moving to the other canvases. She begins uncovering the
