The air in Siyara's room always smelled like turpentine and unfinished dreams.It was still early-the sky outside her window soft, painted with pale lavender and gray, like the morning was still half asleep. The world hadn't opened its eyes yet, but Siyara was already awake. She had been up for hours, her fingers messy with black, blue, and crimson stains. Her wrists hurt, not from sleep, but from holding the brush too long, like it was the only weapon she had.She stood barefoot on the cold floor, her old cotton nightdress dotted with paint from days before. On the easel