The rain had stopped just as Elena's train curved into the valley, its silver tracks gleaming under a bruised autumn sky. The world outside her window was in watercolors: hills bathed in mist, vineyards clinging to terraced slopes, and beyond them, a town that glowed faintly gold, as if holding the last breath of the sun. Verona d'Oro-the city of light and echoes-where she would begin again.
Elena leaned her forehead against the window; a circle of her breathing fogged the glass. She had wanted to study abroad for years, and here she was; yet, there was an ache in her chest now, some kind of excitement laced with fear. Everything felt new and full of possibilities. She told herself it was just nerves from a twenty-one-year-old stepping into her own story. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking into something she wouldn't be able to walk out of easily.
The train slowed, hissing into the small stone station. Passengers stirred-voices murmured in Italian, luggage wheels squeaked across the floor. Elena adjusted the strap of her bag, her old leather journal tucked safely inside. Her mother's voice flickered through her head, soft but firm: "Don't lose yourself chasing dreams, cara."
But that was exactly what she'd come here to do.
Outside, the air was filled with rain and roses. Verona d'Oro looked like it had been painted centuries ago and somehow refused to fade. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between sun-warmed buildings, each window spilling light out into the street. Bells chimed, barely audible, in the distance-not from a church, but from somewhere far older, somewhere far higher. The town felt alive, as if it watched her.
She took a taxi to the small apartment she had rented near the university, the driver humming a love song that fluttered through the radio. She watched out the window as the town rolled past: flower stalls closing, lovers pressed close beneath umbrellas, students laughing in clusters. Everything shimmered. She wondered if she looked as out of place as she felt: the foreign girl with wide eyes, her sketchbook always half open, her heart beating a little too loudly.
The apartment was modest but bright, its tall windows looking down upon a narrow canal. The first thing she did was open them. Carried on the breeze, the faint scent of wet stone and lavender reached her. For a moment, she just stood and let it fill her lungs. Then she turned and saw the folded letter on the desk — from the university. Prof. Adrian Moretti, Department of Fine Arts, Verona d'Oro University.
Her pulse quickened.
She had read his work for years — the man whose essays on Renaissance technique and modern emotion had made her fall in love with art in the first place. There was something almost poetic, she thought, about being here where he taught. A distant admiration, innocent, academic… or so, she told herself.
The next morning, the sun hit her face as she crossed the university courtyard, where sunlight dripped from trees. Students rushed past, some carrying portfolios tucked under their arms, others laughing into coffee cups. It was at the statue in the center-a marble figure of a woman reaching to the sky, her face carved with longing-that she stopped. It reminded her of herself.
The Fine Arts building rose beyond the fountain, all white columns and echoing halls. Her shoes clicked softly against the marble floors. Somewhere in the distance, piano music floated — a melancholy sonata that tugged at her chest. She followed it without thinking through a corridor of framed paintings into a room that smelled faintly of oil and dust.
And there he was.
Professor Adrian Moretti stood near the windows, the light falling across his face in stripes of gold and shadow. He was taller than she had envisioned, his dark hair threaded with silver, his shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms streaked faintly with paint. He was speaking quietly to another student, his voice low, warm, textured like old silk. It was when he looked up and their eyes met that something in the air shifted, not loudly, but like a note struck on a string that wouldn't stop vibrating.
"Elena Rossi?" he asked. His tone was courteous but curious. "Yes, Professor. I'm in your advanced studies class." Her voice was smaller than she had wanted. He smiled politely, professionally. But behind the eyes, there was something-a flicker of recognition, of memory. "Welcome to Verona d'Oro, Miss Rossi. I hope the city treats you well." She nodded, but her heart had forgotten its rhythm. Outside, the light broke through the clouds once more and gilded walls and his outline with quiet, dangerous beauty. It was her first day, and yet she already felt undone-as if Verona d'Oro itself had conspired to introduce her to the one man she should never have met.