I cried until there was nothing left.
Not the loud kind. The kind that comes in waves, dries on your face, then starts again when the house goes quiet. I stayed in bed with the curtains half-drawn and let the day pass without me.
Servants knocked. I ignored them.
When my phone screen lit up, I scrolled through names like they belonged to strangers. Susan. John. Mara. Aunt Ileana.
Then *Maa*.
My thumb hovered. I could almost hear her voice already, calm and sharp, telling me to stop making everything about myself. I locked the phone and pressed it to my chest until the urge passed. Fresh tears came anyway.
The painting was still on the floor.
I sat in front of it for a long time. Ugly strokes. Crooked lines. The thing I had made when New York felt like punishment. Looking at it now,
