Valeria 7:45 a.m.:
Yes! So glad you loved it. You won’t find a better place! Sad I missed you, I was there a few minutes ago!
Camila 7:45 a.m.:
Next time!
Btw, are you free tonight? My friend just invited me to a game night. Would you want to come?
Valeria 7:45 a.m.:
I wish I could, but I already have plans! I was actually going to ask you if you wanted to join me! Rain check?
Camila thinks about canceling on Ella. Hanging out with Valeria sounds so much better, plain and simple. She feels a little bad about it, though. She already bailed once, and she doesn’t want to make a habit of it as she did in Chicago.
Camila 7:50 a.m.:
Rain check.
Camila exhales through her nose and locks her phone, feeling slightly disappointed, and annoyingly, a little proud of herself, too.
Thirty minutes later, she arrives at the studio earlier than usual—early enough that none of her coworkers have made it in yet—so she gets straight to work, turning on the overhead lights at her workstation and pulling the protective film off her current restoration project.
The place smells of turpentine and old varnish—a scent that has become intensely comforting over the years. She puts her favorite vinyl on the record player, and music fills the room. Camila hums along as she sets up her phone and tripod.
What started as a whim—filming her restoration process for social media—has grown into something far bigger than she ever imagined. Her account’s taken off, millions of eyes watching every brushstroke, every patch of color revealed beneath centuries of grime. She didn’t expect to love it this much—sharing the process and teaching people how old paintings can come back to life.
She tests a small patch near the corner of the painting she’s restoring: a family heirloom from the 1800s. Carefully, she dabs a cotton swab soaked in solvent, moving in slow, circular motions. The yellowed varnish lifts away, teasing out a hint of blue—brighter, more accurate, alive again. This is the part Camila loves most: coaxing the past back into the present, one careful motion at a time. Caring for something that has been taken over by time and restoring its beauty.
For hours, she works methodically, section by section, scraping gently with her X-Acto knife where the solvent can’t reach, coaxing the buildup off gently.
Now and then, she glancesat the camera she set up at home to check on Miso. All day, she’s been sunbathing by the bay windows, moving only slightly. The camera was the only way she’d let Miso wander around when she wasn’t home, and Camila can tell Miso appreciates the freedom. She’s not as destructive as she used to be when she was cooped up in the closet for hours.
By 3 o’clock, Camila’s back is tight from leaning over the painting for hours, and she’s more than ready to go home and rest before meeting Ella. On days like today, she’s extra grateful she can set her own hours at the studio.
She needs to find a massage place as soon as possible. In Chicago, she went at least twice a month. Leaning over almost every day for hours at a time has taken a toll on her back, and she knows she’ll have a mountain of issues when she’s older.
The second she crosses the front door of her house, Miso meows a welcome.
“Hi, sweet girl.” Camila picks her up and rubs her head against hers. Miso purrs instantly, and Camila carries her further into the house, flopping onto the couch. Miso settles on her chest, adjusting herself comfortably as Camila wraps an arm around her.
Without warning, her eyes give out, and she drifts to sleep. A couple of hours later, she wakes up disoriented, the edges of reality fuzzy, unsure of what time it is or when she fell asleep. Slowly, she becomes aware of an insistent buzzing sound coming from somewhere on the couch.
She fumbles for it until the screen lights up. Her mom is calling.
Camila lets it buzz. Once. Twice. She heavily considers letting it go to voicemail, the way she always did before, but she can’t. Not when the call could be an emergency.
She rubs her face and drags herself upright before answering.
“Hi, Mom,” she says, her voice sounding thinner than she means it to, still tangled in sleep.
“Camila,” her mother says, relief sharpening into reproach. “I’ve been calling you.”
She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees in. “I was asleep.”
“Asleep? Camila, it’s the middle of the day. Are you taking care of yourself?”
Camila closes her eyes. She has no idea what time it is, but the darkness pressed against her window tells her it isn’t the middle of the day. Leave it to Mom to exaggerate.
