The morning in the gallery began with silence.

Warm light streamed in through the large windows, laying down on the white marble floor. Emily stood in the center of the room, adjusting the position of a painting where strokes of turquoise fluttered across the canvas like wind driving feathers across water.

She loved this morning. She loved to see the walls gradually fill with color, and the city - still noisy and bustling - remain behind the glass. It was safe here, among the paintings and whispers of art.

Emily was working as a curator at the Aurum & Co. gallery for the second year. She came here as an assistant - in naive hopes of entering the world of real art. During this time, she went from serving tea to compiling expositions and organizing exhibitions. Art became her refuge, the language in which she spoke to the world.

Today's day started off hectic - a new owner was expected. The gallery had recently changed ownership, and no one knew who he was or what to expect. Emily was busy - catalog, restorers, calls from artists.

She looked up when the door opened.

A man stood on the threshold. Tall, with slicked back dark hair and a cold stare. He wore a dark indigo coat, and only took off his gloves when he stepped onto the marble.

- Good morning. Are you Emily Sinclair? - His voice was low and confident.

- Yes. And you are?

- Sebastian Knight. New owner. Pleased to meet you.

She held out her hand, trying to look calm. But it was a long handshake. He looked directly into her eyes. Intently. As if he were looking not at her face, but at what was behind it.

- I've heard about your work. I was impressed with the last exhibition. The choice of artists was... unconventional.

- Uh, thank you. I'm trying.

- I can see that," he smiled slightly. - I hope we work well together, Ms. Sinclair.

And before he left, he added, almost in a whisper:

- Though I think you're much more than just a curator.

Emily stood still for another long moment. He left, leaving behind him the slight scent of expensive tobacco and a hint of something disturbingly interesting.

That night, in her small apartment on the second floor of an old building in Brooklyn, Emily made tea and sat by the window. The lantern light was crushing on the glass, drawing shadows on the walls.

Her hand slid over a leather notebook-the same one she'd kept since she was fifteen. A silhouette of a tree was burned into the cover. A gift from her father.

"If you want to understand yourself, start with what you love," he'd once said. She'd been fifteen then. A year later, he was gone.

A fire. His father's workshop burned down the night he stayed up late working. Emily had been in the house and still remembered the way the smoke smelled, the way her mother screamed, the way the walls cracked.

Art had been her anchor ever since. It didn't betray. It didn't fade. It didn't burn.

And maybe that's why today Sebastian's gaze touched something in her that had long been silent.

Something that could burn again.