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Her gaze flicked to Dante, then to the painting behind him. It wasn’t as hopeful as hers. His figure rose from a mound of countless corpses. Hands clutched at his boots, crawling up his legs, trying to drag him down. Dozens of people, covered in gore and blood.
Among all the unfamiliar faces, one caught her attention. She wouldn’t forget this woman. He kept her close — both in his heart and in the photograph that never left his desk.
Blond hair. Black dress. Silk scarf, flowing red down her shoulders.
“Is that…?”
“Yes.”
Dante sighed, looking at the canvas.
“My mother. Eva.”