The world outside was still cloaked in the soft hues of dawn when Eurydice Santiago rolled out of bed, groaning. The air was crisp, the kind that made her want to curl back under the covers and pretend mornings didn’t exist.
But responsibility had other plans.
Dragging herself to the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face, then shuffled into a hoodie and sweatpants.
Her paint-streaked hands—despite multiple washes—were a permanent reminder of her late-night sketches.
She grabbed her sketchpad on instinct, tucking it under her arm before stepping out of her apartment.
A few steps down the block, Santiago’s Sweets, her mother’s small bakery, was already glowing with warm light.
The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon swirled through the air, luring early risers from their homes.
Pushing open the door, she found Isabel Santiago already hard at work behind the counter, kneading dough with practiced ease.
After helping her mother set up for the morning rush, teasing her younger brother Leo, and dodging yet another matchmaking attempt from Mrs. Rodriguez, Eurydice glanced at the clock.
“Alright, I have to go,” she announced, dusting off her hands and grabbing her bag from behind the counter.
Isabel looked up from shaping dough. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a few pastries with you?”
“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Eurydice slung the bag over her shoulder. “I’ll grab something later.”
Leo, leaning lazily against the counter, smirked. “Try not to get paint all over your face before noon.”
Eurydice shot him a look. “Try not to be a menace before noon.”
“No promises,” he said with a grin.
Rolling her eyes, she waved goodbye and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, the crisp morning air waking her up better than any coffee ever could.
The city was coming to life around her—shop owners rolling up metal shutters, the scent of fresh pastries blending with the morning chill, and the distant honks of early commuters.
Eurydice adjusted the strap of her bag as she walked the familiar route toward Studio Lirio, the small art gallery where she worked part-time.
She had taken the job a year ago, partly for the paycheck, but mostly because the owner, Celeste Ramirez, had shown an interest in her paintings and even let her display a few in the gallery. The salary wasn’t anything to brag about, but it kept her connected to the art world and occasionally brought in commissions.
The gallery was nestled between a cozy bookshop and a flower stand run by an elderly man who always smelled faintly of lavender. As she passed by, he greeted her with a warm smile.
“Morning, Eurydice!” he called out.
She smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Alvaro. Business good today?”
“Not bad. You need flowers?” he asked, holding up a small bouquet.
She chuckled. “I’m an artist, not a romantic.”
“Flowers aren’t just for romance,” he said with a knowing look. Picking out a single daisy, he handed it to her. “Here, for inspiration.”
Eurydice accepted it with a small smile and tucked it into her bag. “Thanks.”
The moment Eurydice stepped into Studio Lirio, she was hit with the familiar scent of fresh paint, varnish, and a faint trace of vanilla from the scented candles the owner insisted on keeping near the entrance.
The gallery was small but thoughtfully arranged, with deep blue walls that made every artwork pop. Natural light filtered in through the large windows, casting soft shadows across the polished wooden floors. Several easels stood in the corner displaying new arrivals, while glass cases housed smaller sculptures and handcrafted jewelry.
At the front desk, Celeste Ramirez, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with graying curls and reading glasses perched on her nose, was flipping through a catalog with the focus of someone deciding the fate of the universe.
“You’re actually on time,” she remarked without looking up.
Eurydice set her bag down with a thud. “Don’t get used to it.”
Celeste finally glanced up, giving her a once-over. “You look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“I did just roll out of bed.” Eurydice stretched, stifling a yawn. “At an ungodly hour, I might add.”
Celeste smirked. “Well, try to wake up fully before handling anything expensive.”
Eurydice groaned. “Why does no one trust me with fragile objects?”
“Because last time, you tripped and almost took down a whole display.”
“In my defense, that pedestal was way too close to the walkway.”
“In your defense, you’re the only person who’s ever walked into it.”
Eurydice narrowed her eyes. “One day, I’m going to be famous, and you’ll regret slandering my name like this.”
Celeste chuckled and slid a clipboard across the desk. “Until that day comes, you can make yourself useful. We have a shipment of paintings arriving soon—help me set them up before you disappear into your sketching.”
Eurydice sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. But if I get paint all over my hands, it’s your fault.”
The bell above the entrance jingled as a customer walked in. Mrs. Hartley, an elderly woman with an eye for bold colors, stepped inside, peering around as if searching for something specific.
Eurydice straightened up. “Morning, Mrs. Hartley. Here for another dramatic floral piece?”
Mrs. Hartley tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I was looking for something with more reds and golds this time—something with warmth.” She turned to Eurydice expectantly. “Any recommendations, dear?”
Eurydice led her toward a display near the window, gesturing to a canvas filled with sweeping strokes of deep crimson and burnt orange. “This one’s by a local artist. He works with a palette knife, so there’s a lot of texture.”
Mrs. Hartley ran her fingers lightly over the edges of the frame, eyes twinkling with interest. “I do love the movement in this one. Very passionate.”
Celeste chimed in from the desk, “It would pair well with that gold-framed piece you bought last month.”
Mrs. Hartley grinned. “You two know my taste too well.”
As Eurydice wrapped up the painting, another visitor strolled in—Jasper, a college student and occasional buyer who always dressed like he belonged in a coffee shop poetry reading. His curly hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and his oversized sweater sleeves nearly swallowed his hands.
He leaned against the counter, dramatically sighing. “Eurydice, my creative muse, tell me—how does one capture the essence of existential dread in a single brushstroke?”
Eurydice smirked. “Start with a blank canvas. Stare at it for three hours. Regret all your life choices. Then throw some dark blue on it and call it a masterpiece.”
Jasper gasped. “Brilliant. You truly get me.”
Celeste muttered under her breath, “You two are insufferable.”
Eurydice winked. “That’s why you love us.”
Just as Eurydice finished ringing up Mrs. Hartley’s purchase, the gallery’s delivery buzzer rang. The shipment of new paintings had arrived.
Celeste handed Eurydice a box cutter. “Since you insist on being dramatic about your work, how about you dramatically unbox these?”
Eurydice stuck out her tongue but grabbed the cutter and made her way to the back, where several large wooden crates had been placed by the delivery crew.
Carefully slicing through the packaging, she pulled out the first canvas—a breathtaking abstract piece, all deep indigos and bursts of white, like an exploding nebula.
“Wow,” she murmured, running a finger along the edge.
She loved moments like this—when she got to see a piece of art for the first time, completely unfiltered. It reminded her why she painted in the first place.
“Try not to fall in love with it,” Celeste called from the other room. “We do need to sell these, you know.”
Eurydice rolled her eyes, but she was already mentally figuring out where the piece should go.
She spent the next hour arranging the new paintings around the gallery, stepping back, adjusting lighting, stepping back again—her perfectionist streak kicking in. Every piece needed to feel right.
By the time she finished, she had completely lost track of time.
That was, until the sound of her phone vibrating against the counter snapped her out of her daze.
She glanced at the screen. Amelia.
Her stomach dropped. Right. The gala.
With a deep breath, she picked up.
“Tell me you didn’t forget about tonight,” Amelia’s voice came through the speaker.
Eurydice groaned, pressing her forehead against the counter. “If I say I did, will you let me back out?”
Amelia cackled. “Absolutely not. Now get home and get ready. You’re about to serve overpriced food to the city’s elite.”
Eurydice sighed dramatically, already dreading what was to come.
But as she took one last look around the gallery—the warm lighting, the vibrant colors, the quiet hum of creativity—she couldn’t help but wish she could just stay here.
With paint on her hands and the world shut out.
Instead, she was about to step straight into a disaster waiting to happen.