The mirror no longer judged her. Alicia faced it every morning with a serenity that burned. The scars, marked by fire and pain, were no longer symbols of fragility but testimony: she had survived. Not only the fire, but also the forgetting, the void, the disappearance of Verso.
Nights were the hardest. Sleeping without hearing his voice, without feeling his paint-stained fingers brush her skin. Verso was no longer there. He had left in a final act of love. His body, perhaps, remained among the rubble. His memory, however, lived with her—a memory that hurt like raw flesh.
Clea, her friend and sister, came back each day with more doubts than certainties. The hunt and persecution seemed to have ended. There were few results, but too many suspicions—most born from instinct, from the gut. The Laroque, the Desmarets, the Durand, and many other names. But they were all hiding, shielded, or protected by lawyers, claiming their commitment to find the ones responsible for the tragedy.
With time, Alicia no longer wanted to listen. She locked herself in her room. She brought a few canvases, an easel, and paints. She tried to create, to let it flow, but nothing came out. Only erratic strokes, a few memories that she then erased. She must not go back—she didn't want to. It wouldn't be healthy. It wasn't what Verso would have wanted for her. Alicia would build new worlds, but she wasn't ready yet.
One night, as Alicia tried to fall asleep, Clea and her parents met quietly to talk about the situation outside. Everything seemed calm—or at least no new attack had targeted the Dessendre household—but the tension was more than palpable.
Clea spoke profusely, cryptically, about secret meetings, about papers signed with suspicious ink, diplomats moving pieces with familiar names: Carlo Durand. Dante. Germany. Morocco. The Kaiser. France on edge. England cautious.
"Why would Carlo be doing this?" asked Aline, already guessing part of Clea's answer.
"They're not rumors. They're strategies. I don't know what the Durand want, but they're mad—and dangerous," said Clea, eyes blank. "I'm sure it was them."
"We gain nothing by making baseless accusations, daughter," replied Aline, worry in her voice. "The Laroque promised to find the culprit and keep us informed as needed."
Renoir simply watched his wife and daughter. He felt heavy. He too wanted to point a finger. He had cut all ties with the writers. Tried not to even walk the same floors as them. It was the most coherent stance. But he wasn't ready to confront them—despite wanting to—as much as Clea did.
The tension was tangible. And everything uncertain. The worst part? Everyone in the city condemned the tragedy from a moral standpoint, yet turned a deaf ear when it came to speaking truth or holding someone truly accountable. There was commitment, deference… and indifference.
"It's not strange for a writer like Carlo to dabble in diplomacy," said Renoir, pipe in hand. "He might be trying to benefit from the international tensions. We always knew the colonized nations would seek uprising eventually."
"But we'll end up killing each other, at this rate," replied Clea, arms crossed. "I don't know… Maybe he has privileged information. Maybe he wants to offer himself as a mediator. He lived in Germany for years. That's where he met… her."
Aline looked away and sighed at the reference. Eleanor. She was a beacon, not only because of her brilliant mind, but her even more extraordinary talent in every artistic expression. She was admirable, dazzling… and hard to face.
"Since Eleanor left, he was never the same," Aline said, her hands folded tightly in her lap, discomfort in her voice.
"Her departure was terrible for all of us but…" Renoir hesitated. "This path he's taken doesn't seem like a healthy way to cope with grief."
"Look who's talking…" muttered Clea, eyes down.
Renoir heard her words. He rose from his seat and grabbed his cane. He walked with more languor than a few months ago. Something in him had also been lost forever with Verso. And that made him age faster, it seemed.
"The wounds are no longer fresh paint, Clea," said Renoir, trying to keep a firm tone. "But they're not fully dry either. Still, one would hope that Carlo's already moved past that."
Aline stood up too. She understood that Renoir, though he appeared strong, still carried the weight of losing Verso—perhaps just as heavily as they all did. She approached him and gently took his arm.
"But paint and ink are different, darling," Aline added, also on her feet. "We can paint over it. But they… they have to erase everything. Or use a new sheet. And not everyone is willing to do that. It's like… taking up a new canvas."
Clea stood and began to walk away, quickly. She left her parents behind, speaking while giving them her back.
"New sheet or not, erasing or rewriting—it doesn't matter," she said, fists clenched. "Something tells me the Durand were the ones behind it. And if they weren't, they gave the order."
"We don't know that, daughter. If Carlo has indeed stepped into diplomacy, it's because he's got one foot out of the guild," Renoir replied dryly. "He was never aligned with the Laroque. But he wouldn't… do this just to shake our guild and theirs."
"I know the Laroque lead the writers, and that they were furious with our family heading the painters' circle. They call us class traitors for criticizing the bourgeoisie we were born into. But to go as far as… this?"
Now Clea turned to face her parents, her face red with anger, contradiction, frustration. She didn't know much yet, and time was running fast. She didn't know when something terrible might happen again—to her family, specifically. And things were already going wrong out there.
"We know… yes. Something is happening," added Aline, reaching out with her other arm to invite Clea to come closer.
"It's not just something. Some people are missing. One of our friends. Two chamber musicians—a first violinist and the lead guitarist. A writer too," Clea listed, convinced her parents already knew. "Sure, this is the bohemian city. People come and go, disappear and reappear because they were off partying, they say."
"Daughter…" Renoir tried to interject, unheard.
"But clearly, something's going on. And you can play blind all you want, but I won't. And Verso definitely wouldn't have either."
"Please let Verso's memory rest," Aline added.
"You know just as well as I do that he would have done something. He would've offered to help if he knew people close to us were caught in some dark plot."
After those words, Clea turned her back to her parents again.
"Good night."
Clea walked off. Her long hair swayed with defiance, and her steps were heavier and faster than usual. Her long skirt flared with the motion of her hips.
There stood Alicia, who seemed to have overheard something. She was holding Esquie's plush doll, now with golden buttons. Her face was expressionless, until she gave Clea the warmest smile she could muster.
"Sister…" said the older one, glancing at Esquie with tenderness. "Try to rest. Don't burn yourself out with all this. We can talk tomorrow, if you want to ask or know anything. Alright?"
Alicia nodded slightly, then looked at her parents embracing on the floor below. Then, she looked back at Clea, trying to convey something with her eyes. Her older sister understood.
"I know, Alicia. The pain never really goes away," Clea murmured, now solemn. "But… they're no longer at odds, trapped and locked away in the Canvas. And neither are you. Try to sleep. Good night."
She kissed Alicia on the forehead—a bit firmly—and walked off to her own room in quick steps. Alicia, after one last look at her parents, did the same.
Once inside her room, Alicia went to the mirror and looked at herself. Each time she did, her reflection judged her a little less. And that night, she saw someone who had chosen to live. And for Alicia, living also meant remembering—especially Verso and his sacrifice in the flames, but also inside the Canvas.
Yes, the Canvas had vanished. But its trace still lived in her skin. In her memory. In her name.
That night, without a word, she took the notebook she had always kept hidden out of shame. In it, she began drawing the faces no one remembered anymore: Lune, Sciel, Monoco. Gustave was harder to draw—but she needed to.
And at the very end of the notebook, on a blank page, she drew Verso. Only halfway. And with great difficulty. She managed to capture only his profile. Only his shadow.
But it was enough.
A faint breeze swept through the room. As if an invisible hand had caressed her cheeks and then disappeared in silence—like a promise fulfilled.