Roxana's knees throbbed against the cold hall floor, but her hands never paused. The mop rasped over polished wood, tracing hypnotic circles that caught the sunlight like dried tears. A soft melody escaped her lips, whispered as if only the cedar planks could hear. The scent of floor oil mingled with her sweat, plastering the coarse dress to her back.
Suddenly, quiet footsteps broke the hush. Roxana looked up to see Sappho standing in the archway, saffron robes billowing like butterfly wings. The poetess smiled, and Roxana tightened her grip on the mop until her knuckles whitened.
— Roxana, she called, voice as gentle as laurel leaves stirred by a breeze. — Come with me. I have something to show you. The sun is generous today.
Roxana hesitated, wiping her hands on her ash-stained apron before taking the offered hand. Sappho's skin was soft, unscarred; Roxana pulled back as though a long touch might burn her.
They walked to the gardens, where paths wove among vibrant blooms and the air was heavy with jasmine and ripe pomegranate. This kind of kindness always confused Roxana. The poetess's generosity sometimes made her forget she was human—and that such care shouldn't hurt. For a year, Sappho had sheltered her, fed her, clothed her, and spoken to her like an equal. Still, gratitude weighed on Roxana like an unspoken debt.
At the trail's end lay a clearing with a solitary wooden easel. A blank canvas waited, surrounded by tiny jars of pigment and neatly arranged brushes.
— This is my special spot, Sappho said, circling the clearing before seating Roxana on a tree stump. — For years I've spent most of my time here. she inhaled deeply, eyes half-closed — the air is so good, isn't it? It fills your lungs… I love this — she paused, gazing at the golden horizon as if lost in thought — You must be wondering why I brought you here, yes? Her eyes held an apologetic glint — You know I always knew who I was, what I should do, what I loved… but lately, everything feels pointless. I realize I've grown distant from you all. That was never my intention. This school is the only thing that still makes sense in this madness. And… I want to apologize — tears threatened in her eyes.
— For what, Madam? Roxana asked, trying to infuse calm into her racing heart.
— Since you arrived, I haven't been able to… I didn't… I want you to feel this is your place too. I know you don't wish to speak of what you've endured, and that's okay. But know I am someone you can rely on. And, by the gods, call me Sappho, all right? she smiled again.
— All right…
— We don't need words, but there are other ways to communicate, see the canvas? she lifted her arms toward the easel, revealing her pale, scented skin beneath the robe.
— I see it.
— It's been blank for a while. With this war, I confess I've had no time to paint. But it's always helped me.
— With what?
— I believe in a single, unquestionable truth. Yet I also believe we're too much ourselves to see it. I cannot see the world as you do—and vice versa. The arts here—poetry, music, painting—are deeply personal. Do you agree?
— Yes, Ma'am… yes — Roxana managed a small smile.
— See? Sappho chuckled and patted Roxana's arm—but carefully, upon seeing her flinch — Oh, excuse me. No touching, right? she laughed away the tension.
— Better…
— Good. Roxana… I want to know you better, so tell me if you'd like to paint something of your choosing. Have you tried it before?
— Yes. But I never liked it much… my sister liked it more… her face darkened.
— Your sister?
— Yes.
— Very well. Don't worry. No pressure…
— But I think I'd like to paint something.
— Really?
— Yes.
— Wonderful! Let's begin.
They rose in unison. Roxana approached the canvas; Sappho hovered a step behind.
— Let's start simple. Paint what you see. Something that captures nature's beauty as you feel it.
Roxana studied the blank canvas, then the horizon. Her heart clenched. She'd heard of Sappho's "test" for students but never seen it. It was hard not to feel foolish beside pupils who grasped everything instantly.
With hesitant fingers, she dipped a brush in water. The palette held vibrant hues—pomegranate red, lapis lazuli blue—but she chose charcoal dissolved in water. Bold, dark strokes tore across the canvas; the green trees bled into deep shadows. The sunlight was weak, nearly extinguished; the river, meant to gleam silver, seemed a murky mirror of a cloud-choked sky that looked like stifling hands. When she finished, a breeze carried a dry leaf onto the wet paint, sticking like a scar.
She stepped back. Sappho studied the painting in silence, her gaze tracing every stroke. Roxana braced for critique, but the poetess simply placed her hand—still stained with charcoal—over Roxana's. Then, without a word, Sappho recited a poem—not of gods or heroines, but of a woman sailing in darkness, guided only by her own voice's echo. Her voice faltered on the last verse, and Roxana didn't notice her tears until she tasted salt on her lips. Sappho let her own tears fall, staining her saffron robes like gold paint.
The hush under rustling leaves lasted until Sappho whispered:
— I too saw the world this way… before I learned to lie to myself.
That night, Roxana did not return to the empty hall. Instead, she sat on Sappho's studio floor, charcoal-black fingers tracing verses onto a torn scrap of parchment. The words were imperfect—crooked, fierce, with exposed roots and heavy skies—but they were hers.