The gallery smelled of fresh paint and coffee.
Morning light spilled through the wide windows, glancing off the canvases still leaning against the walls like promises waiting to be fulfilled.
Naiara stood in the middle of the room, drew a deep breath, and let the feeling wash over her, she'd done it.
Clara crouched on the floor with her camera, chasing the right angle for the final shot.
"If you warm the light a little, it'll look like the sea is coming out of the painting," she said without looking up.
Naiara laughed softly. "You have a gift, you know. You make even still things breathe."
Clara turned, cheeks flushed, hair a mess.
"And you have the gift of making everything you imagine come true. Your father said the opening would be in a month, right?"
"Yes, but I don't think I can wait that long. Look at this place, it's almost ready."
They both looked around. The white walls, the new spotlights, the scent of wood and paint. There was a kind of electricity in the air neither of them could name.
Naiara picked up Clara's camera, curious to see the last shots. As she scrolled, her breath slowed: faces of strangers, fragments of sea, hands touching, a child's reflection on the water. Each picture carried a tender melancholy, as if Clara had captured feelings instead of images.
"Clara," she said, her voice suddenly serious.
"Hmm?"
"What if… the first exhibition was yours?"
Clara blinked. "Mine?"
"Yes. Your photography has something that speaks. Why not open the gallery with your work? It would be perfect. Living art, honest, like the people here."
For a moment Clara said nothing. Then she laughed, nervous and teary all at once.
"You're insane, you know that? I give you my time, and you give me a dream."
"It's not a gift. You've earned it."
Clara brushed her hair back, eyes shining.
"Fine. I'll do it. But only if you wear something worthy of a famous gallerist."
"Deal."
They both laughed, and that laughter, full and unguarded, scared Naiara a little.
It had been so long since she'd felt happy without guilt.
By sunset, Clara hugged her goodbye with the promise to meet again tomorrow.
Naiara lingered in the empty gallery, listening to the hush and the faint rhythm of the sea.
She turned off the lights, locked the door, and walked home.
The villa waited, still and silent.
The curtains swayed in the breeze; her mother was out for dinner, and the only sound was her heels against marble.
She climbed the stairs, slipped off her shoes, and went to the window.
From the upstairs corridor she could see the garden sloping toward the cliff.
It was nearly dark, but she caught the shapes of three men loading crates into a white van.
Her chest tightened.
They were her father's men, she recognized the way they moved, precise, efficient.
But one of them was different. Taller, quieter, the hood of his jacket casting his face in shadow. Something about him struck her: a familiarity she couldn't explain. She hurried down the stairs, heart pounding.
The night air hit her face as she pushed open the door. The path lights were off; only the van's headlights flickered over the lemon trees and stone walls.
"Hey!" she called.
No answer. She stepped closer, trying to see what they were taking.
The crates bore the gallery's logo, she hadn't ordered any transport.
"Who's there?" she shouted again, her voice trembling.
Nothing.
The van rolled away, silent, disappearing past the gate.
Naiara stood frozen, pulse hammering in her ears. Then, a breath behind her. Not the wind. Not an animal.
A human breath, warm, close.
She stopped breathing.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
Then a low voice, rough, almost a whisper against her skin: "Don't look for me, Tigna."
Her blood went cold. She turned sharply, but no one was there. Only the scent, leather, salt, smoke, curling around her, intimate and fleeting, before the night swallowed it whole.
Naiara stayed still, fists pressed to her sides, trying to decide if she had imagined it.
Her heart wouldn't slow down.
Who could it have been? And that word… Tigna.
She repeated it under her breath, tasting the sound. She'd never heard it before, yet somehow it felt familiar, as if it had always belonged to her.
Slowly, she climbed back toward the house, her legs unsteady.
Before closing the door, she glanced once more toward the garden.
Where she thought she'd heard the voice, the grass was flattened. And on that exact spot, a single lemon leaf swung gently back and forth, as if someone had just brushed past it. She turned and shut the door.
Silence swallowed her whole.
"Tigna…" she whispered, barely audible.
"What does it mean?"