Threads of a Gilded Clock

The bells above the hotel door gave their usual sleepy jingle, as someone entered the hotel. Just as Aurelia stepped into the soft morning air of Florence. She looked out the window, the sky was overcast, casting the cobblestone street in hues of cream and blue-gray, like the colors hadn't fully woken up yet. Neither had she.

She tugged her coat tighter around her body and descended the hotel steps slowly, her limbs sore and heavy. The phoenix had kept her long past midnight-she hadn't gotten in until about one the night before. Her clothes still smelled faintly of turpentine and varnish. The memory of gold and crimson wings still flickered behind her tired eyes.

"Buongiorno, Aurelia!" came a voice from behind the front desk, startling her slightly.

Giulia. Ever present, with her steel-gray hair in a tight bun and her sharp eyes behind pink-rimmed glasses. Her crossword puzzle was spread before her like a battlefield.

"Morning, Giulia," Aurelia said through a yawn, lifting her hand in a small wave.

Giulia gave her a quick once-over and clicked her tongue. "Madonna mia, you look... ehh... morta, sì? Like-a ghost."

Aurelia gave a groggy chuckle. "That's about right."

"You come back last night... eh, una di notte, no? I hear the door."

"Yeah, I was at work, working on a painting. Lost track of time."

Giulia shook her head. "Always with-a the painting. Troppo tardi! You need sleep. Or espresso. Or-a man."

Aurelia laughed under her breath, waving her off as she opened the door. "Grazie, Giulia. I'll work on that."

"Va bene! Don't-a get kidnapped, eh?"

She stepped out into the street before she could come up with a reply.

Florence in the morning was always slower than she expected, almost reverent, as if the city had the good sense not to rush beauty. The light fell soft on the pastel buildings and shutters, the street slick with leftover drizzle. She began her walk toward the studio, the soles of her boots clicking on the uneven stone.

But something felt... off.

Aurelia blinked, trying to brush off the fog in her head. Her muscles ached, her eyes were gritty, and her shoulder still throbbed from holding her arm up for hours the night before. Her body was trying to recover. Maybe her mind was too.

Yet she couldn't shake the sensation crawling across her back.

It wasn't sound at first. It was instinct. Her steps slowed. She glanced over her shoulder.

Nothing.

Just the sleepy street. A woman walking her terrier. A young man smoking outside a café, scrolling on his phone. The usual quiet elegance of the city waking up. And yet...

She kept walking, just a little faster this time. But the chill on her neck didn't leave.

Then, footsteps. Faint, but there.

She stopped suddenly, pretending to check the strap on her bag.

The steps stopped too.