Chapter 3 - THE FIRE THAT TOOK MY FATHER
Seven years earlier, my father had been a glassmaker in Murano.
His name was Lorenzo Bellini.
He was not famous.
He was not wealthy.
But he could transform molten glass into objects that looked as though they had captured sunlight.
I grew up watching him work.
The furnace roared.
The tools glowed.
His hands moved with extraordinary patience.
He used to tell me:
“Glass remembers every mistake, Maya. But it also remembers every careful touch.”
When I was twenty-one, he created the Tre Vite collection.
Two hundred and forty hand-blown pieces.
Each one marked with our family's symbol.
A luxury distributor expressed interest.
Then another.
For the first time, my father believed he might finally pay off the workshop's debts.
But three weeks before the collection was scheduled to ship, the warehouse burned.
The official investigation blamed an electrical fault.
The insurance payment barely covered the outstanding loans.
Bellmont Heritage Collections acquired the damaged workshop and its remaining assets.
My father never recovered.
He died the following winter.
I moved to London, completed my studies in conservation, and began working with museums and private collectors.
I told myself I had moved on.
But grief does not disappear simply because a person becomes busy.
May you like
It waits.
And sometimes it returns in the shape of a crystal glass beneath a wedding chandelier.
