Florence Doesn’t Sleep

The streets of Florence glistened under silver rain, each cobblestone catching the light like bruised glass. Midnight blurred the city into something softer—less history, more shadow. The tourists were gone. The art slept. But Aanya Roy did not.

She walked without an umbrella, letting the cold drizzle cling to her skin. Her boots splashed gently in the puddles. She didn't rush. There was nowhere to be, no one waiting.

The gallery still echoed in her bones. The painting. His eyes.

She told herself it didn't matter. That it was nothing. Just a coincidence. A stranger. A silent evening in a city that didn't know her name.

But the way he had looked at her…

Not with interest. Not even desire.

But with knowledge.

Like he had already taken her apart in his mind.

Aanya turned down a quieter street near the Arno. Shops were shuttered, and the river flowed dark beneath the bridges. The wind caught the hem of her coat and lifted it like silk, brushing cold against her thighs.

She tried to stop thinking.

But her mind wouldn't listen.

The painting had been hers—years ago, born of grief and desperation. Sold to a stranger through an anonymous listing. She hadn't asked who bought it. She hadn't cared. Rent was due, and her hands had been too numb to hold on.

But seeing it again, hanging on that wall like a wound reopened, had undone something in her.

And then him.

The man in the black suit, standing still beneath golden light.

Watching her.

Not the art.

Her.

She felt it again now, even alone—his gaze like invisible ink on her skin.

By the time she reached her apartment, her coat was soaked and her hair clung to her neck. The building was old, the walls cracked, and the key stuck halfway in the lock before finally turning.

Inside, the silence was heavy.

No heater. No television. No music. Just the faint hum of Florence living around her—the ticking of a neighbor's clock, distant footsteps, someone laughing far too late.

She dropped her bag on the floor and peeled off her wet coat.

Her eyes fell to the sketchpad on the table.

Still open.

Still blank.

She had tried to draw earlier—before the gallery. Before the man with eyes like frost.

But her hands had trembled.

She couldn't paint bodies anymore. Couldn't bring herself to draw hands, touch, closeness. Every time she tried, the pencil froze mid-line, and her lungs tightened like rope.

She hadn't picked up a brush in months. Not for real. Not for herself.

She stared at the sketchpad now, then turned away.

It was too much.

She moved into the kitchen instead, boiling a little water and pouring it over stale tea leaves. The bitter scent rose, sharp and earthy. She held the cup but didn't drink it.

Instead, she moved to the window.

Rain tapped lightly on the glass. Down in the street, the world shimmered. Lamps reflected off puddles. Trees swayed like shadows dancing.

She pressed her forehead to the cool glass.

And still, she couldn't forget his face.

Not handsome in the usual way. But chiseled from something colder than flesh. All angles and silence.

She had never seen eyes like that—so pale, so still. As if they didn't blink unless it was useful.

What kind of man looked at a stranger like that?

What kind of man watched, and walked away?

The air inside felt suddenly too tight.

She needed to move. To breathe.

Without thinking, she grabbed her coat again—still damp—and left the apartment.

Florence wasn't loud at night, but it wasn't quiet either. It breathed. Lived. Whispered.

She turned down Via dei Neri, where the buildings leaned in close, ancient and worn. A light flickered in a window above. A cat darted across the stones.

Aanya tucked her hands into her pockets.

But as she crossed into a narrow alley near Santa Croce, she felt it again—that shift in the air.

A presence.

Then came the voice.

"Hey, bella."

She turned.

A man—mid-thirties, unshaven, drunk—leaned against the wall. His eyes trailed over her body.

"Cold night, huh? You want company?"

She stepped back. "No."

He grinned. "C'mon. Just talk. Don't be a bitch."

She turned to walk, fast.

He grabbed her wrist.

Panic flared, sharp and instinctive.

Her breath caught as she tried to yank free. "Let go."

But before she could shout—

A second figure emerged from the shadows behind them. Silent. Swift.

A strong hand gripped the man's collar and shoved him back against the wall.

The impact was hard but precise—controlled. The drunk gasped, dazed, then stumbled and fled into the night.

Aanya stood frozen, heart pounding.

And then she saw him.

The same man from the gallery.

Standing there in the dark, under the dripping eaves. Not even out of breath.

He didn't speak.

Neither did she.

Their eyes met again.

Her breath hitched, but this time, she didn't look away.

She couldn't.

He stepped closer—slowly, deliberately—until he stood just out of reach.

Then he nodded, once.

Not a greeting.

A warning.

And turned.

He walked back into the shadows, disappearing between the buildings.

Gone again.

Like a ghost. Like a secret.

Aanya stayed there for a long time.

Her wrist throbbed from where the man had grabbed her, but it wasn't pain that left her shaken.

It was the silence.

The way her heart still beat too fast.

The way her skin still remembered that gaze.

Back home, she didn't turn on the light.

She sat at her table, wet coat still on, sketchpad in front of her.

This time, her hand moved.

She picked up the pencil.

And began to draw.

Not the alley. Not the drunk man.

But him.

The eyes came first. Sharp, pale. Not blue. Not grey. Something between. Something inhuman.

She drew the shape of his mouth—firm, unsmiling.

The angle of his jaw.

The darkness around him.

She didn't know why she remembered it so clearly.

She didn't know why her fingers wouldn't stop.

When she finally set the pencil down, the sketch stared back at her.

Cold. Controlled.

But alive.

Final Lines

She stared at the eyes on the page. They didn't blink. Didn't move. But they watched her the same way they had in the alley.Not like a man.Like something waiting.