Chapter 1
The scent of basil and morning sun dripped into the small studio, painting the worn ceramic tiles in hues of gold. It was a smell Amalia Bennett had grown familiar with, a constant companion in the studio. She was perched on a stool, chin resting on her hand, the wooden surface cool against her skin. The afternoon sun, filtered through dusty skylights, painted long, slanted shadows across the room, turning the familiar chaos into something almost beautiful.
Her mentor and friend, Azzura, was hunched over an easel, lost in her world of colour and texture. humming a tune as old as the single olive tree outside the window, her silver hair catching the light like a spun coin. She moved with the grace of a seasoned dancer, her hands, though gnarled with age, still possessed a remarkable dexterity. Her apron, a kaleidoscope of paint splatters, spoke of a life lived in colour. A vibrant scarf, this one a swirl of oranges and reds, was draped around her neck, a defiant splash against the muted tones of her simple dress.
But it was her eyes that held the most striking contrast. They were the color of a summer sky, a vibrant, impossible blue that seemed to hold the vastness of the heavens within their depths. It was from these very eyes that she had gotten her name – Azzurra, the Italian word for ‘sky blue’. Amalia loved watching her work, the way her brush danced across the canvas, giving life to what was once blank.
But today, the studio felt heavy, the air thick with a quiet melancholy that settled in her chest like a stone. It was because of the portrait. It hung on the far wall, almost hidden behind a stack of unfinished canvases. The subject was a woman, her skin pale, her eyes a deep, unsettling grey. She wasn’t smiling; instead, a profound sadness painted her features. Amalia didn’t know who she was, but every time she looked at the portrait, a strange ache resonated within her.
A shadow fell across the floor, breaking her reverie. A boy stood in the doorway, hesitant, his shoulders hunched slightly as if expecting to be turned away. He had unruly dark hair that fell over his forehead and eyes the colour of warm brown earth. He was clutching a small sketchbook, and his clothes looked like they’d seen better days, but there was a quiet intensity about him.
“I’m looking for Studio Serenade,” he asked, his voice a low murmur.
Amalia nodded, her gaze drawn to his sketchbook. “You’re in the right place. What can I help you with?”
“Amadeo,” he said, stepping further into the studio, his eyes scanning the cluttered space. “That’s my name, I mean. I’m...I’m trying to learn how to draw.”
Azzurra, finally noticing the presence of another human, looked up from her canvas, a bright smile spreading across her face. “Amadeo! Welcome! You found the place, I see. Amalia, this is Amadeo. He's rented an easel for the morning to practice his drawing!
Amadeo offered a shy wave and Amalia couldn’t help but notice the way he seemed to avoid her gaze, instead focusing on a small, potted fern in the corner. “Alright then, dearies, I’ll leave you to it. I need to try and wrestle the colour onto this canvas before I lose it!”
And with that, Azzurra returned to her painting, leaving them in silence again. Amalia shifted on her stool, wondering how to navigate this sudden presence. She glanced back at the portrait, the woman’s sad eyes seeming to meet hers. The silence became heavy between them.
“Do you... do you see that one?” Amadeo finally said, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the same portrait. Amalia nodded. “The sad one.” He blinked, as if surprised she had found the words.
“Yeah. The sad one. She... she feels so real, doesn’t she?”
Amalia slid off the stool and walked over to the portrait, Amadeo following close behind. They stood side-by-side, examining the woman’s features as if they were deciphering a secret code. The woman’s pale skin had a translucent quality, the shadows beneath her eyes giving them a depth that belied the flatness of the canvas. But it was her eyes, the deep grey eyes that seemed to hold an entire universe of sorrow that arrested their gaze. “It’s like she’s seen too much,” Amadeo whispered, tracing a finger in the air as if touching the woman’s painted cheek.
Amalia nodded, the feeling resonating deeply within her. “She looks... burdened. Like the world is sitting on her shoulders.”
“Yeah,” Amadeo said, his brows furrowed. “Like she’s carrying something really heavy.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “My father used to say that sadness was like a lead weight in your chest. That it would slowly pull you under if you didn’t find a way to let it go.” Amalia felt a chill despite the warm morning sun.
“Did he... did he let it go?” Amadeo shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor.
“I don’t think so. Not entirely. It stayed with him, like a shadow.” The image of a shadow, long and dark, settled over Amalia’s thoughts. She glanced back at the portrait, the sadness in the woman’s eyes seeming to deepen, to amplify in the dim light.
“Do you think... do you think he wanted to?” Amalia asked, the question seemingly small, but carrying the weight of her own unspoken anxieties. Amadeo considered this, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I don’t know. Maybe he thought he deserved it. Maybe he thought happiness wasn’t for him.”
“But that’s not right,” Amalia said, the words escaping before she could fully process them. Amadeo looked at her, a flicker of something like understanding in his brown eyes.
“No, it’s not.”
For a moment, they stood there, just the two of them, surrounded by the silent canvases and the faint smell of paint, connected by the shared understanding of something profoundly sad.
The portrait, a silent witness, held them both in its gaze.
To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering - Freidrich Nietzsche
