Chapter 97

• The train ride back felt slower, though the schedule hadn’t changed. The countryside blurred past, soft and distant, but I hardly looked up. The sketchbook sat carefully zipped in the inside of my coat, close enough that I could feel its weight against my ribs. The folded fabric rested in the canvas bag at my feet. It didn’t look like much to anyone else. But I knew what I had been given.
• This wasn’t inspiration. This was responsibility.
• At one point, I caught my reflection in the window. I looked older than I had before Milan, before the boutique’s return, before the tape, before the truth. But not in the way I used to fear. This wasn’t the age of fatigue. It was the age of presence. My face didn’t hide as much anymore. My eyes didn’t deflect. I saw myself there, clearly, without armor. That was new. That was earned.