Page 39 of Never Quite Gone

The touch sent recognition sparking through my entire being – not just physical attraction, but soul-deep knowing. His fingers were warm against my pulse point, the contact both foreign and achingly familiar.

“Take care of yourself,” he said softly, urgency threading through his voice.

I nodded, but hesitated at the door. “Will you tell me the rest? Eventually?”

His smile held both promise and warning. “When you're ready. When remembering won't break you.”

The city embraced me as I stepped out into early morning light – car horns and coffee carts, delivery trucks and early commuters, all the familiar rhythms of my current life.

The sun caught my wedding ring, and for once the sight didn't bring only pain. Michael's love was still there, still real and precious. But now it felt like part of a larger pattern, a thread in a tapestry I was only beginning to understand.

At the corner, I paused to look back at the old warehouse. Alex still stood at the window, his figure barely visible in the strengthening dawn.

This time would be different. I didn't know how I knew that, but the certainty settled in my bones like truth.

For now, I had patients to heal, a department to run, a life to live in this particular present. But as I turned toward the hospital, my hands remembered everything they'd ever been – surgeon, artist, healer, lover – and for the first time since Michael's death, the future felt full of possibility rather than just survival.

Even if that possibility came wrapped in impossible memories and ancient warnings.

Even if understanding might break me before it healed me.

CHAPTER 13

Painted Hearts

Florence 1487

Florence was painted in shades of gold and terracotta as I made my way through streets already bustling with life. My fine clothes marked me as nobility despite my attempts at discretion – silk and velvet in Medici colors, impossible to truly disguise. But today I barely noticed the usual deference of passing merchants and artisans, my mind focused entirely on my destination.

I'd first seen his work in the church of Santa Croce – a small Madonna that caught the light in ways that made my heart stop. There was something about his technique, about the way he captured human emotion in divine subjects, that spoke to something deep in my soul. The art world had been whispering about this new talent, this Elia Montari whose paintings seemed to glow from within.

The studio occupied the top floor of an old building, its windows catching the best morning light. I'd walked past several times, watching him work from afar – the total focus in his expression, the grace of his movements as he mixed colors and applied paint with careful precision.

The studio door stood open to catch the morning breeze, sendingthe scent of oils and pigments spilling into the street. The space beyond felt alive with creativity and warmth, half-finished canvases catching light like captured prayers.

Elia looked up as I entered, and for a moment I forgot the carefully prepared speech I'd practiced. His eyes were green-gold in the morning light, bright with intelligence and gentle humor despite his attempt at professional distance.

“My lord Medici,” he said, offering a perfectly correct bow. “This is an unexpected honor.”

“Your Madonna has caught the attention of my family,” I said, finding my voice. “We would commission something... larger.”

“You're too kind.” His modesty wasn't false – there was a genuine humility about him that made my carefully maintained noble poise want to crack. “Though I fear your family's usual artists might be better suited...”

“I know what I want,” I interrupted gently. “Show me what you're working on. Please.”

He hesitated only briefly before gathering several sketches, spreading them across a table beneath the largest window. Our hands brushed as he pointed out details, and I tried not to notice how the contact made my pulse jump.

“The play of light here,” he said, indicating a study for a Nativity scene, “I want it to feel like dawn breaking. Like hope made visible.”

I leaned closer, breathing in the scent of paint and possibility. “It's beautiful,” I said simply, honestly. “You see light differently than other artists.”

A faint blush colored his cheeks at the praise. “Light is everything in painting. It's what gives life to mere pigments and canvas.”

His apprentice arrived with wine – a courtesy for an important patron – and I caught myself studying his profile against the morning light. He moved with such certainty among his paintings, such quiet joy in his work. It made me want to stay here forever, just watching him create.

“The commission,” I said, forcing myself back to business. “Thefamily chapel needs something significant. Something that captures both divine and mortal truth.”

“That's a heavy burden to place on paint and canvas,” he replied, but his eyes had that spark that suggested he welcomed the challenge.

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