Morning has a different rhythm now.
It used to come with deadlines, phone calls, and gallery openings that never seemed to end. But lately, mornings came quietly—without demand, without expectation. The sun crept across the hardwood floor like a secret, painting golden bars over Gigi’s bare feet as she stood in front of her easel. The faint smell of turpentine and drying paint filled the room, the kind of scent that clung to her skin and made her feel whole.
She had grown used to this kind of silence—the unremarkable peace of a life rebuilt from ashes.
The world outside her apartment window pulsed with the usual New York chaos—honking cars, snippets of conversation, the hiss of a bus pulling over—but none of it seemed to touch her anymore. Inside, time slowed. Inside, she could breathe.
