I traced my finger along the cool bronze cheek of that woman—my cheek, my grandmother’s soul. And for the first time in a hundred silent sessions, I felt seen. Not as a pose. Not as a body. But as someone who had loved, and lost, and sat still long enough for art to catch the echo.

“I’d like you to sit for a Pietà,” he said quietly. “But not a holy one. A human one.”

I blinked. “What?”

He set down his tools. “Then let’s put her in the sculpture.”

“Not her face,” he said quickly. “Her presence. The way you held her hand. The way she made you feel… held.”