The story
Every Saturday in summer, Lia set up her easel in the shade of the stone arch, between the peach stall and the pottery stall. No one knew that her paintbrush had belonged to her grandmother, a witch famous throughout the valley. All it took was one brushstroke too many, a pinch of golden light, and the portraits began to breathe. That day, the old baker, freshly painted, leaned out of the canvas to greet himself, while a tabby cat jumped down from the picture and stole an anchovy from the fishmonger. The whole square burst into laughter. Lia blushed, but then she smiled: perhaps there was no need to hide her magic anymore. After all, a village that can laugh at a painted cat is a village ready to believe in miracles.
