Adelaide had spent countless nights hidden in the upper scaffolding of the Sistine Chapel, her breath shallow, her presence unseen. She was not meant to be here—no woman was—but the pull of the master's work was irresistible. By candlelight, she watched as Michelangelo labored, his body bent, his face lined with exhaustion.
She had seen the visions take hold of him, the way he would pause, his brush hovering in midair, as if seized by something beyond this world. Then the nightmares would emerge onto the ceiling—faces contorted in agony, dark figures lurking between the clouds, whispers of something unseen by those who would one day gaze upon the frescoes in awe.
Tonight was no different.
He stood beneath the vast expanse of his creation, shoulders hunched, staring up at a section he had painted just days before. Sweat clung to his brow, his tunic streaked with paint. Adelaide could see the flicker of hesitation in his stance, as if he were battling something invisible.
Then came the voice.
"You must remove them."
The Archbishop's tone was sharp, his footsteps echoing through the empty chapel. Adelaide pressed herself into the shadows, heart hammering.
Michelangelo did not turn. "Remove what, Your Eminence?"
The Archbishop stepped closer, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the marble floor. "The faces. The grotesque figures. The… distortions." He waved a hand toward the ceiling. "They do not belong in the house of God."
Silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, Michelangelo lowered his brush. "They belong more than you know."
Adelaide knew what he meant. She had seen it in his restless nights, in the murmurs he spoke when he thought himself alone. These figures were not just mistakes of a weary mind—they were his tormentors, his ghosts, his fears made tangible.
The Archbishop's lips thinned. "You will erase them."
Michelangelo finally turned, his expression unreadable. "And if I refuse?"
The Archbishop stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then you will find yourself without patronage. Without means. Without protection."
Adelaide bit her lip, willing Michelangelo not to bend. This was his masterpiece, his truth. To erase it would be to erase himself.
A long moment passed before the painter gave a slow nod. "Very well."
The Archbishop sighed, satisfied. "Good. The chapel must be divine, free of corruption."
He turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading into the vast silence.
Michelangelo remained standing, staring at the fresco above him. His hand trembled at his side. Adelaide wanted to reach out, to tell him not to listen, but she could not reveal herself—not yet.
Instead, she waited until the chapel was empty once more. Then, as Michelangelo climbed the scaffold, she finally spoke.
"Do not erase them."
He froze, brush poised. His head turned slightly, as if unsure whether he had imagined her voice.
Adelaide stepped into the dim light. "They are a part of you. A part of this work. To paint over them is to lie."
His tired eyes met hers, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then he sighed, running a hand over his face. "You should not be here."
"And yet I am," she said softly. "Just as your nightmares are."
A dry laugh escaped him. "They think I paint angels, but I paint what I see when I close my eyes." He turned back to the ceiling, to the writhing figures between the divine ones. "Perhaps they are not meant to be seen."
Adelaide stepped closer. "Perhaps they are the most important part."
Michelangelo's fingers tightened around the brush. For a long while, he simply stared at his creation. Then, with careful precision, he lifted the brush to the ceiling once more.
Adelaide watched as he moved, not erasing, but weaving the nightmares deeper into the fresco—hidden in folds of fabric, in the shadows behind saints, in the expressions of those who gazed toward heaven with doubt in their eyes. The Archbishop would never see it. The world would never know.
But Adelaide would.
And Michelangelo would.
And that was enough.
She slipped away before dawn, leaving the master to his work. The Sistine Chapel would be remembered for its grandeur, for its beauty, for its divinity.
But hidden in the brushstrokes, in the corners of the sky, the truth remained.
And it always would.