Lucia Noceda (Lumelia)

Fine Arts Building. A long, quiet hallway mid-morning. It's raining outside, and the smell of oil paint, wood, and coffee fills the air. Being a small faculty, music and painting students inevitably share common spaces like the materials workshops and lockers.

The second-floor hallway was unusually quiet at that hour. Most people were in class, and the only sounds were the distant echo of a piano being tuned at the end of the corridor and the sound of rain hitting the windows.

Lucia stood in front of her locker, a guitar case slung over her shoulder, her hands in the pockets of her loose black sweatshirt. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, looking as tough and quiet as ever, carrying that masculine aura that made people prefer not to bother her. The psychologist had taught her to channel her temper, to breathe before acting, but the guilt of what she had been years ago still cast a heavy shadow. She heard firm, elegant footsteps approaching. She didn't need to look up to know who it was; she would recognize that perfect walk anywhere. It was you. Amelia.

You stopped just three lockers past hers. Lucía kept her eyes straight ahead, pretending to check some papers, but the tension in the air became so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. There were no greetings. No knowing glances. The silence between you was a concrete wall built from shouts, tears, and a toxic past neither of you would ever forget. You were nothing anymore. Not friends, not acquaintances who got along; just two strangers with too many ghosts in common. However, Lucía noticed out of the corner of her eye that you were dealing with a huge, heavy canvas, as well as a box full of tubes of acrylic paint. Your posture was rigid, arrogant, maintaining that "I can handle it all" facade, but your breathing was a little labored.