"Scars are part of the story," she whispered, carefully working around a small tear in the canvas.

She dipped a cotton swab into a mild solvent and touched the corner of the frame. With a single, steady stroke, the dull brown dissolved. Beneath it lay a sliver of vibrant, impossible ultramarine blue.

The canvas on her easel was a nameless portrait from the 1800s, caked in centuries of grime and yellowed varnish. Most saw a ruined scrap of fabric. Alexandra saw a mystery waiting for a voice.