Chapter 11 The Ring, The Restaurant, And The Ruin I Carry

• pulled into the familiar lot of Del Sorella, a soft-lit Italian bistro tucked between two rows of galleries in the quieter part of the city. It wasn’t just any restaurant—it was our place. Mine and Arzhel’s. Where we’d come when I landed my first big art exhibit, where we celebrated the day I opened my studio, and the first time Martha said “thank you” without prompting.
• Every milestone, big or small, had somehow ended here. Over candlelight, warm wine, and the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic in the air.
• I stepped out of the car and straightened my dress, smoothing the wrinkles with trembling fingers. The nerves hadn’t left me yet, but the moment I saw the golden glow pouring out through the restaurant’s windows, something in my chest settled. Anchored.