Darkened varnish hid the mountain sky in the background, and it would take hours of careful, patient work to lift the yellowed resin away without touching the original paint underneath.

“This landscape hung in my father’s study when I was seven,” I said, dipping a clean cotton swab into the solvent.

“I remember watching him clean the gilded frame on Sunday mornings.”

A soft tap sounded on the open wooden doorframe.

Marcus stepped into the studio carrying a small polished tray with a porcelain cup of black coffee and a warm butter pastry.

He set the tray on the side table beside my jars of turpentine and straightened the white linen napkin with quiet precision.