ELARA'S POV
The fourteenth day was Korčula. A walled town on an island that looked like someone had designed it to be exactly what it was, stone streets, a harbor, medieval architecture that had survived because the island was small enough to be overlooked by history's more destructive moments.
We arrived on the morning ferry and had no plan beyond walking.
The town was compact enough to cover on foot and we did, the old streets narrow and cool even in the May heat, the stone worn smooth in the middle where centuries of people had walked the same path. Elara stopped at a small gallery near the town gate, the kind of place that existed to sell paintings to tourists but occasionally had something real among the landscape reproductions.
She found something real.
A small watercolor, eight
