Chapter 1

The train slowed as it pulled into Florence.

I couldn't take my eyes off the view. Slowly, I closed the magazine resting in my lap. My heart tightened. I was here. I wasn't sure if I was imagining it. Then I saw it.

The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore rose above the rooftops, glowing beneath the warm afternoon sun. I'd seen it hundreds of times in photographs, textbooks, documentaries, and in the sketches filling the pages of my notebooks.

But this wasn't on paper or on a screen. This was real. And so was Florence.

Just a few months ago, studying architecture here had felt like an impossible dream. Something that happened to other people. Braver people. The kind who packed a suitcase, left everything behind, and somehow never looked back.

Now I was one of them or at least I was supposed to be.

The elderly Italian woman sitting beside me noticed the way I stared out the window and smiled.

"Prima volta a Firenze?"

It took me a second to switch my brain into Italian.

"Sì."

"My first time."

Her smile softened.

"You'll fall in love with this city."

I'd heard those words countless times.

From professors.

From friends.

From strangers online.

Florence will steal your heart.

Florence will change your life.

You'll always come back.

No one had ever mentioned how terrifying it was to arrive completely alone.

By the time I reached the apartment building, my shoulders ached from carrying my backpack, and my fingers were sore from dragging my suitcase across Florence's uneven cobblestones.

I stopped on the opposite side of the street and looked up.

This wasn't one of those modern student residences I'd seen in American movies.

The building was old.

Its pale walls carried the marks of time, the green shutters had long since lost their fresh color, and the heavy wooden door looked as though it had been standing there for centuries.

It wasn't perfect.

But somehow...

It already felt like the beginning of something.

Or maybe I just wanted it to.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of church bells.

For a few sleepy seconds, I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to remember where I was.

Then it hit me.

Florence.

A smile spread across my face.

My smile disappeared the second I looked at the clock.

"Oh, no..."

Twenty minutes later, I was practically running through the narrow streets with damp hair, my backpack hanging from one shoulder while my phone insisted I was only seven minutes away from the university.

The map was lying.

At my current pace, I had maybe three minutes left before I was officially late.

I rushed around a corner—

and walked straight into someone.

Not hard.

Just enough for my sketchbook to slip from my hands and tumble onto the pavement.

Before I could lose my balance, a steady hand caught my arm.

Warm.

Gentle.

Firm enough to keep me from falling.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"

I dropped into a crouch to grab my sketchbook.

So did the stranger.

Our heads nearly collided.

For a brief moment, our eyes met.

Neither of us moved.

Neither of us said a word.

Then he broke the silence.

We both stood up.

"Well," he said with a warm, easy laugh, "that's one way to start the morning."

For a moment, I forgot to breathe.

He was tall, dark-haired, and holding a takeaway coffee in one hand.

My sketchbook was in the other.

"Is this yours?"

He glanced down at the open page.

The sketch of the cathedral dome.

Then back at me.

"You drew this?"

Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"It's... not that good."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Not that good?"

He looked at the drawing again.

"I'd love to see what you consider good."

I laughed nervously.

Compliments had always made me uncomfortable.

I bit my lip, searching for the right thing to say.

I never knew what to do with them.

"Thank you."

He handed the sketchbook back.

"I'm Matteo."

"Violet."

He paused.

"Czech?"

I nodded.

"And you?"

He smiled.

"I think that's pretty obvious."

I couldn't help laughing.

For the first time since arriving in Florence, it felt completely natural.

"So," he asked, pointing ahead, "where are you going?"

"The Faculty of Architecture."

He blinked.

Then a grin spread across his face.

"I've got some good news... and some bad news."

I let out a sigh.

"Go on."

"Let's hear the bad news."

"You're walking in the exact opposite direction."

I closed my eyes.

"Seriously?"

"The good news?"

He grinned.

"You haven't accidentally walked to Rome."

I couldn't help laughing.

"That's... oddly reassuring."

"I thought so."

He slipped his coffee into his other hand and nodded toward the street behind us.

"Come on. I'll walk you there."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

He smiled.

"But if I leave you on your own now, you'll probably end up in Venice."

"I don't have that bad a sense of direction."

"Ask me again after you've survived your first week in Florence."

I rolled my eyes, but I found myself smiling.

"Fine."

We turned around and started walking.

The morning streets were already alive. Scooters buzzed past us, café owners arranged tables outside their doors, and the smell of fresh espresso drifted through the air.

"So... architecture?" Matteo asked.

I nodded.

"Architecture."

"What made you choose it?"

I looked ahead for a moment.

"I've never really had an answer people believed."

"Try me."

"When I was little, everyone else was drawing princesses."

"And you?"

"Houses."

He laughed.

"That actually explains a lot."

"It does?"

"You look at buildings the way most people look at paintings."

I glanced at him.

"You figured that out already?"

"You stopped in the middle of the street yesterday just to sketch a dome."

"Fair point."

For a few moments, we walked in comfortable silence.

Then Matteo nodded toward the sketchbook tucked under my arm.

"Can I see more?"

I hugged it a little closer.

"No."

"It can't be that bad."

"It's unfinished."

"That's a different answer."

"Matteo..."

"Violet..."

"No."

He raised both hands in surrender.

"All right."

He lasted exactly ten seconds.

"But seriously," he said, "that drawing was impressive."

Heat crept into my cheeks.

"You only saw one page."

He stopped walking.

When I looked up, the teasing smile had disappeared.

"No."

His voice was quieter now.

"I'm saying it because I know talent when I see it."

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Nobody had ever said something like that to me.

I lowered my eyes.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

A few minutes later, the university came into view.

I slowed to a stop.

The building was even more beautiful than it had looked in the photographs.

Students filled the courtyard, laughing, talking, carrying portfolios and rolls of drawings under their arms.

For the first time since arriving in Florence, I didn't feel quite so alone.

Matteo held the door open for me.

"Welcome," he said with a grin.

"To the best place in the city."

I stepped inside.

Sunlight poured through the tall windows, lighting up the spacious studio beyond. Conversations echoed through the corridors in Italian, English, and languages I couldn't even recognize.

It felt like stepping into another world.

As we walked through the building, Matteo greeted what seemed like every second person we passed.

"Do you know everyone?" I asked.

He shrugged.

"Most of them."

"That's not normal."

"It feels normal to me."

I laughed.

Maybe getting lost this morning hadn't been such a bad thing after all.

The studio gradually fell silent as Professor Ricci walked in.

Only moments earlier, the room had been buzzing with conversations in Italian, English, and languages I couldn't even identify. Now everyone hurried back to their seats.

Matteo motioned toward the empty chair beside him.

"Looks like we're just in time."

"Barely," I whispered, setting my sketchbook on the table.

He chuckled.

"Told you following me was a better idea than trusting your map."

"I'll never admit you were right."

"You don't have to."

His grin widened.

"I already know."

I rolled my eyes, unable to hide my smile.

The room itself was breathtaking.

High ceilings.

Towering windows that flooded the studio with morning light.

Long wooden worktables scarred by years of sketches, models, and late nights.

Architectural drawings covered the walls, alongside photographs of projects completed by former students.

I slowly turned in my chair, taking everything in.

"It looks even better than I imagined."

Matteo glanced around the studio.

"I've seen it almost every day for years."

"And?"

He smiled.

"It still feels like my favorite room in Florence."

I understood exactly what he meant.