Morning light crept through the narrow window, painting pale stripes across the wooden floorboards. Aanya Roy blinked awake, the lingering scents of Florence—espresso, damp stone, faint jasmine—still clinging to her senses. She sat up, heart fluttering at the memory of last night's dinner with Emilia, the comforting laughter and shared plans for survival in this foreign city. But now, reality pressed in again: the scholarship stipend was scarcely enough for rent and supplies, and every euro spent felt like a betrayal of her family's sacrifice.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and reached for her phone on the small desk. A new email notification glowed in the inbox: subject line, "Final Notice: Repair Charges and Outstanding Fees." Her pulse tightened. She tapped it open, reading each word as if it carried the power to undo her fragile hope.
To: Aanya RoyFrom: Casa Fiorentina Student HousingSubject: Notice of Damages and Outstanding Payment
Dear Ms. Roy,
This is to inform you that the apartment at Via dei Leoni, Unit 3B, which you vacated on May 10, 2025, shows significant damage beyond normal wear and tear. The following items require repair or replacement: broken windowpane in the bedroom (€450), patched water stain on ceiling from unreported leak (€300), damaged doorframe in bathroom (€250), and repainting of scuffed walls (€200). Total: €1,200.
As per the rental agreement, your security deposit of €400 will be applied toward this amount. The remaining €800 is due within seven days. Failure to pay will result in further action, including referral to debt collection.
Please remit payment or contact our office immediately to discuss arrangements.
Sincerely,Casa Fiorentina Management
Her chest tightened. She sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers trembling. The address—Via dei Leoni—was the cramped student flat she'd left behind in haste when the scholarship opportunity in Florence materialized. In her rush, she'd overlooked some minor scratches on the floor and a stubborn leak in the ceiling. At the time, she'd told herself that the deposit would cover any small fixes; she believed her modest savings and the stipend would cushion the blow. But now the bill loomed: €800 beyond her deposit. In rupees, in the context of her family's finances back in Kolkata, it was insurmountable.
Tears blurred her vision. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. She recalled the day she left home: her mother's brave smile, hiding worry behind gentle eyes; her brother's hopeful wave, trusting her promise to succeed. How could she tell them now? That even before she'd painted her first canvas here, debt from behind was already dragging her under.
She closed her eyes, breathing in shallow, measured breaths. The early morning hum of Florence outside the window felt impossibly distant. She imagined herself swallowed by those cobblestone streets, invisible among the tourists and artists and café patrons, yet the weight of her mistake made her feel exposed, naked in her vulnerability.
Her mind raced through possibilities. She could email Casa Fiorentina, request an extension or negotiate a payment plan—but with what funds? The stipend arrived only monthly, barely enough to cover rent for this small apartment. Part-time work might help, but finding flexible hours around her demanding internship seemed unlikely. And what if the landlord refused leniency? The thought of debt collectors contacting her in a foreign language felt terrifying.
She opened a blank document on her laptop, hands shaking. She drafted an email: polite, contrite, pleading for mercy. Each sentence felt humiliating: "I apologize for the damage…" "I did not intend to cause harm…" "I am a scholarship student with limited means…" She paused, rereading. Would they care about her dreams or family sacrifices? Probably not. Florence was full of visitors; it had no place for excuses.
A sudden knock at the door startled her. She wiped her eyes and rose, smoothing her skirt. Through the peephole, she saw the friendly face of her landlord, Signora Bianchi, whom she'd met yesterday. Perhaps the timing was coincidence. She unlocked and opened the door.
"Buongiorno, Aanya," Signora Bianchi greeted, voice warm but professional. "I hope I'm not disturbing. I wanted to remind you about the payment for April's rent—it's overdue by two days. I understand the stipend arrives at month-end, but please ensure it's transferred by tomorrow." She paused, studying Aanya with kindly concern. "If there's any trouble, let me know. I will ask the agency to delay formal notice, but soon they will insist."
Aanya's throat tightened. "I understand, Signora. I'm waiting for the stipend this week. I'll transfer as soon as it clears."
The landlord nodded, offering a gentle smile. "I know starting in a new country is challenging. If you need guidance on part-time options or local assistance, I can help with contacts. But they expect punctual payment." She closed the door politely.
Aanya let the door click shut and leaned against it, exhaling shakily. Now, on top of the €800 in Florence-related debt, April's rent was late. Her breathing hitched. She sank onto the small sofa, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold in the panic.
She opened her draft email to Casa Fiorentina again. The cursor blinked. She typed: Gentile Signori,… and paused. The formality felt like a barrier, but also necessary. She described her situation: scholarship stipend arriving soon, genuine regret for unintentional damage. She offered to pay €200 immediately from savings and arrange a schedule for the remainder. She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
Moments later, her phone buzzed with a message from Emilia: "Metti il messaggio qui: 'How are you this morning?'" Aanya stared at the text, heart pounding. How could she text casually when her world was unraveling? She typed back: "Not good. Trouble with rent and old apartment damages." She pressed send, then sank further into the sofa.
She imagined sharing the full story with Emilia: the bill, the overdue rent, the fear of eviction from this tiny Florence flat. But even telling a friend felt like admitting failure. Still, Emilia's support might help. Almost immediately, another message: "Meet me at Caffè dell'Arno in an hour. I'll bring coffee and good news (hopefully)."
She forced herself to stand and freshen up: tied her hair back, splashed cold water on her face, and changed into a simple blouse and jeans. Each movement was heavy with dread. On the desk, a sketchbook lay open—blank pages waiting for inspiration. She ran a finger over the paper, longing for art to rescue her, but guilt smothered creativity.
Stepping outside, the mid-morning sun was bright, the sky a clear blue. Tourists strolled along narrow lanes; shopkeepers arranged pastries in display cases. Florence's beauty felt mocking: while everyone else enjoyed leisurely mornings, she raced against mounting obligations. She gripped her bag strap, determined not to let panic show.
At Caffè dell'Arno, Emilia waved from a corner table. The aroma of espresso and warm croissants was inviting. Emilia's smile faltered when she saw Aanya's pale face. "Sit," she urged, sliding a cup of cappuccino toward her. "Tell me everything."
Aanya exhaled, describing the repair bill and the overdue rent. Emilia listened, expression sympathetic but practical. "€800 is steep, but maybe you can ask Casa Fiorentina if they accept installments. It helps they favor students. Show them your scholarship letter. For rent here, talk to Signora Bianchi: maybe pay half now, half next week. Meanwhile, find small gigs: tutor English, assist in a café, model for art students."
Aanya sipped coffee, letting warmth soothe her racing heart. "I hate depending on favors. It feels humiliating."
Emilia reached across the table, touching Aanya's hand. "We all start somewhere. Your art matters; this is temporary. You're not alone—many artists here juggle jobs. The city thrives on creativity and resilience. Promise me you won't panic sell your supplies or skip meals. You need energy to paint and to negotiate."
Aanya nodded, determination flickering. She would try. After coffee, they parted, and Aanya resolved to face each debt directly. She returned to her apartment and drafted detailed emails: one to Casa Fiorentina offering a payment schedule, another to Signora Bianchi confirming rent transfer plan. Each email felt like a small triumph over despair.
By midday, she ventured out to the local student center, seeking notice boards for job postings: English tutoring ads, occasional translation gigs. She left her contact information pinned to a corkboard: "English Tutor. Art student. Flexible schedule." It felt awkward to advertise her need, but necessity prevailed.
Next, she visited the art supply store, hoping to negotiate a small discount or enquire about work-for-credit opportunities. The shopkeeper, an older Italian man, recognized her from the institute orientation. He offered to let her assist in organizing a late-night art demonstration in exchange for store credit. Aanya agreed eagerly, relief blooming.
Walking back through Florence's sunlit streets, she paused at a familiar plaque—the same mosaic she'd touched the day before. Now, instead of feeling like a portent of doom, it felt like a reminder: art was her anchor. She pictured herself painting again, brush in hand, heart focused on creation rather than fear.
That evening, as she prepared a simple pasta meal, her inbox pinged with a reply from Casa Fiorentina: they acknowledged her request, asked for documentation and partial payment of €200 within three days, with the remainder due in two installments over the next month. It wasn't the full waiver she'd hoped for, but it was something. Relief and gratitude mingled with lingering anxiety.
She sent a confirmation email to Signora Bianchi: the rent transfer would arrive tomorrow. She closed her laptop and sank onto the bed, exhaustion washing over her. Yet beneath it, a small ember glowed: she had faced the debt head-on, reached out for help, found solutions instead of sinking into panic.
As night fell, Aanya lit a single candle on the desk. Shadows danced across the walls, and she allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection. Florence had tested her already—just days into her journey. But she had found allies, discovered opportunities, and, above all, refused to surrender to despair.
She reached for her sketchbook and made a single, tentative stroke of charcoal: a dark line that curved into a shape resembling a flame. It was imperfect, but it symbolized her resolve: to transform struggle into fuel for creation. She paused, fingers smudged with charcoal, and pressed her hand to her heart. The city outside was alive with possibility and danger in equal measure.
In the hush of her small apartment, Aanya whispered to herself, "I will rise." And though her path was uncertain, she felt the first stirrings of confidence: debt might shadow her steps, but it would not chain her spirit. Tomorrow, she would meet new mentors, face fresh challenges, and inch closer to the moment when her art—and perhaps someone unexpected—would change everything.