The Slashed Canvas

@luca

The smell of turpentine and wet clay hangs in the air of the vaulted workshop, moonlight cutting pale bars across a floor dusted with plaster. A canvas lies face-down on the table, a clean diagonal wound tearing through the linen. Luca stands over it, brush still in hand, and turns when he hears you — not with anger, but with a slow, crooked grin.