Addie wakes in a stiflingly hot Venice morning in July 1806, surprised to find the usual aftermath of her curse missing. Matteo, the man she spent the night with, does not remember her, but he is calm and focused, sketching her as she lies in his bed.

When Addie asks what Matteo is doing, he admits he had to capture the way she looked. He asks her not to move until he finishes, then lets her see the sketch: a quick charcoal study that is recognizably her but filtered through Matteo’s style. Addie notices the charcoal smudges her skin, yet she cannot smudge the drawing itself—she cannot leave a mark on the page with her touch.

Addie wrestles with the desire to take the drawing, but realizes that if Matteo keeps it, he may forget her while the sketch remains. She hands it back, choosing permanence over possession, and prepares to leave. Matteo flirts, joking that if neither of them remembers the night, it must have been a very good time, and Addie leaves him with a final request to try to remember her.

That evening, as the canals glow gold at sunset, Addie lingers on a bridge and thinks through what the sketch means. Luc’s old taunt—Ideas are wilder than memories—reframes itself as a clue: even if she cannot be remembered, the thought of her, the image of her, can root itself in the world through art. The existence of Matteo’s drawing feels like a crack in the curse and a door into possibility.

Luc arrives behind her, the scent of trees cutting through the Venetian heat, and asks if she is tired and ready to yield to him tonight. Addie refuses, buoyed by her discovery, and considers telling him she has found a way to leave a mark. Seeing the warning in his gaze, she stays silent, determined to keep this small advantage from being turned against her.