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But he hadn’t expected her to really do this, and to leave without any hesitation.
Hedy arrived in Florence on the night of the ninth day.
It was now March of 1485. The night wind was brisk and cool, the sound of bells from the carriage chiming softly in the air.
She had been away from Florence for two years.
Yet, as she returned, it felt as though everything had happened just yesterday.
The old city hadn't changed at all. Even the ivy that wound its way up the stone walls looked exactly as it had when she first arrived.
The carriage stopped in front of the Doge’s Palace, where Botticelli and the Medici family were already waiting.
She stepped down with unsteady feet, and Lorenzo made a move to approach, but Botticelli was already quick on his feet, meeting her halfway.
“Hedy—finally, you’re back,” he laughed, “You’re truly as striking and beautiful as the goddess Aglaea now.”
She smiled and embraced him, allowing him to kiss the back of her hand.
Botticelli glanced at the empty carriage but didn’t ask why Da Vinci hadn’t come back with her.
He handed her a cup of warm wine, and the lady of the house next to them greeted her with a smile. The group then slowly walked back together through the flickering lights.
The man, leaning on his cane, cast a detached glance at the crescent moon beside the cloud layers. After a long while, he let out a quiet sigh.
His eyes, like the depths of a still lake, still rippled as he watched her retreating figure.
——
Da Vinci tried to continue living as he had before during the days she was gone, but he didn't succeed.
He had actually known what the word "loss" meant at a very young age, but after such a long time, suddenly seeing her leave without a word after becoming emotionally invested, he found himself wanting to deny it.
He comforted himself by telling himself that Hedy was just going to Florence to help out, and that there was no need for him to worry too much.
However, the journey from Milan to Florence alone took twenty days round-trip, not to mention the time spent on other matters afterwards.
On the first day, he pretended to be carefree as he went to the Sforza Palace to continue working on the design of the stairs and towers, spending the entire day alone.
That night, however, he tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the emptiness feeling as though a wound had suddenly appearedsomewhere, making him pause for a few seconds with every breath.
By the next morning, his first thought upon waking up was—
When will Hedy return?
She still needed seven or eight days to reach Florence, right—
Once that thought entered his mind, the sense of grievance and unwillingness began to spiral upwards like a creeping vine.
Such a long journey, and yet, they could have traveled together, playing the piano and singing along the way. They could have talked all night, couldn't they?
By the fifth day, Da Vinci had started to consider writing her a letter, or perhaps riding after her to catch up.
That hidden wound of his, each day—no, each second—was becoming more and more prominent.
It was as if his heart was tied to a thin string, with the other end fastened to her wrist.
As her carriage rattled along, he could always feel that pull.
