Page 130 of King Of Order

She was unsteady on her feet, frail, like a ghost of the woman I knew, but her eyes locked onto mine for the first time.

I froze at the eye contact.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it until that moment. There was something so simple, yet so profound, in how she gazed at me.

A second later, I tracked to her and held my arms out.

She stepped into my embrace.

‘Grazie Dio!’

My growl, the weakening of my knees, and the lurch through my soul were evidence of the palpable relief that went through me.

Limbs shaking, tears pricking my eyes, I stroked her back and whispered into her hair.

She still didn’t speak, but she held on tight to me.

The day wore on, and I tried everything—talking to her, sitting by her side, holding her hand. She would glance at me, sometimes nod, but no word came from her lips.

I was desperate.

At my wit’s end, it hit me like a punch to the gut—art.

It was what pulled her out of her despair before.

In one of our late-night conversations, which felt like another lifetime ago, she mentioned how painting saved her during her darkest days.

My soul lurched with hope, and I didn’t waste a second.

I went into town and bought high-end drawing supplies similar to those in her studio: paints, brushes, sketchbooks, pencils, and canvases.

When I returned, I set up the patio overlooking the sea. It was one of the most stunning views in the world: the endless horizon, the soft crash of waves, and the faint silhouette of Vesuvius in the distance.

I wanted to give her something beautiful that could draw her out of the fog.

When I showed her the setup, she just stared, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t touch the supplies.

Didn’t even react.

My heart sank. I thought I’d failed again.

More than anything, I feared how I was falling for her and how she meant everything to me.

The following day, I woke up to find the bed empty.

Panic flared for a second before I heard the soft scratching of pencils.

I followed the sound to the patio, and she was—sitting in a chair, legs crossed under her tush. Her back to me, gazing at the ocean as her hand moved steadily across the page.

She was drawing.

It wasn’t much—a simple sketch of the horizon, but it was something.

I pressed a fist to my mouth to stem the exultant shout I wanted to let out.

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to break the spell.

---