Morning came quietly — too quietly.
The gallery always had a certain rhythm: the hum of lights warming up, the muffled thud of footsteps across the polished floors, the faint clinking of frames being adjusted on their hooks. But today, all of that felt muted, distant — like the air itself was holding its breath.
Gigi sat by the tall window in her office, one leg tucked under her, her hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. The coffee’s surface was still, reflecting a slice of gray sky through the glass.
Outside, the rain had started again — that slow, steady kind that didn’t rage or roar, only persisted. It sounded like a memory.
She had spent most of the night awake.
Not painting. Not answering messages and just sitting in that same spot, tracing the cracks of light again
