The plane jolted as it touched down, dragging Ava Monroe out of a half-dream the kind that dissolves before you can name it.
For a second, she didn't move. The hum of the engine, the rustle of seatbelts, the Italian murmur around her, it all felt like a dream she wasn't ready to believe in. Then she turned toward the window.
Rome.
The world outside was gold and alive. Light spilled over the runways, hot and ancient, like the city had been waiting for her long before she ever booked the flight.
By the time she stepped outside, the air hit her, warm, bright, and filled with the sound of everything happening at once. Someone was laughing. A Vespa sped past. A vendor shouted something that sounded like music.
Her cab driver didn't speak much English, but he drove like he was late for something important; swerving, honking, muttering, grinning through it all. Ava pressed her forehead to the glass and watched the city unfold in bursts of color.
Domes against the sky. Faded murals. Clotheslines strung like ribbons between old buildings.
Rome was not just alive — it was around her. Like it was watching her back.
She exhaled, a shaky smile forming.
You're here. You actually did it.
Trastevere greeted her like a postcard that had aged beautifully, the paint peeling, the air thick with basil and church bells. The apartment was smaller than the photos, but the light, oh, the light, fell through the shutters like honey. A courtyard cat blinked lazily at her from a terracotta wall, as if to say, You're the new tenant. Don't mess this up.
She dropped her suitcase and looked around. One window. One creaky table. A shelf that leaned slightly to the left.
It was perfect.
For the first time in years, no one here knew her. Not the version who'd been humiliated in front of a lecture hall, her research dismissed by a man who thought charm was intelligence. Not the quiet girl who replayed that moment every night until she could barely stand the sound of her own name.
Here, she could start again.
"Fresh start," she whispered, tracing her fingertips over the windowsill.
By late afternoon, the streets shimmered. Heat bent the air, the city pulsing with lazy rhythm. Ava changed into a linen shirt and walked out without a map, because maybe the only way to find Rome was to get lost in it.
The scent of roasted coffee and tomatoes clung to the air. Street musicians played near the fountains, their notes drifting like conversation. Every turn offered something new, a carved angel, a splash of laughter, a window bursting with bougainvillea.
When she finally stopped, it was at a small café tucked between two florists. The sign above the door read Caffè delle Ombre, Café of Shadows, the letters faded, but proud.
"Un cappuccino e un cornetto, per favore," she said softly, the Italian clumsy but earnest.
The waiter grinned like she'd passed a secret test.
Ava took a seat outside, sketchbook open on the table. The fountain across the square caught the afternoon light perfectly, she tried to sketch it, but her hand trembled. It wasn't nerves exactly. More like awe.
Then came the soft click of a camera shutter.
She looked up.
A man stood across the street, camera in hand. The light hit his face, sharp jaw, brown hair curling slightly at the ends, eyes steady and focused. He froze when she caught him.
"Sorry," he said quickly, voice warm and low. "You were sitting right where the light was perfect."
Ava blinked, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed. "So… I ruined your photo?"
He smiled. "Improved it."
He crossed the street with the ease of someone who belonged anywhere he went. "Matteo Delarez," he said, extending a hand.
"Ava."
"American?"
She laughed. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only in the way you look at things," he said, settling into the chair opposite her. "Like you're not sure you deserve to."
Her brow arched. "Do you always talk like that to strangers?"
"Only when they're interesting."
She tried not to smile. Tried and failed.
They talked; about light, about art, about cities that hurt and heal at the same time. Matteo spoke like someone who'd made peace with uncertainty. "I photograph moments people forget to notice," he told her. "The quiet ones. They say more than the loud ones ever do."
When he laughed, it was low and unhurried, a sound that belonged to Rome itself.
By the time she realized how long they'd been talking, the waiter brought her a second cappuccino.
"Compliments of the photographer," the waiter said with a wink.
Ava shook her head, flustered. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," Matteo said simply, standing. "Besides, you'll need the caffeine. Rome's beautiful, but she's not gentle."
She smiled. "Thanks for the warning."
He slung the camera over his shoulder, giving her a look that lingered just long enough to make her heart stumble.
"Welcome to the chaos, Ava."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the city, by sunlight and sound and motion.
Ava sat back, tracing the rim of her cup, watching the street as it came alive again. Somewhere, bells began to ring.
For the first time in months, she felt something like joy, fragile but real.
Rome didn't promise her peace. But maybe, just maybe, it would give her courage.