Meanwhile, I rented a small apartment in New York.It was tiny.I set up my drawing board in the living room, arranged my paints by color, and washed my brushes before leaving them to dry on the windowsill.I sat on the sofa, and there were no speakers hidden somewhere, waiting to suddenly blare sound at me.Silence.Real silence.Curled up on the sofa, I finally let myself cry.The days that followed were simple.During the day, I went to a café on the corner to sketch, and at night, I returned to my apartment to paint in oils.I painted a series based on my memories of Sicily—the olive trees, the waves, the domes of the churches, and the long corridors of the estate.In my third week in New York, Andre appeared outside my apartment.That afternoon, I had just returned from a gallery, carrying a bag of newly purchased paints.As I climbed to the third floor, I saw someone standing outside my door, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his hair meticulously groomed.His back was to me,
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