She set off towards the garden, her heart racing with excitement. As she turned down a narrow street, she spotted a small, intricately carved wooden door hidden behind a row of tall buildings. The door was adorned with a tiny sign that read "Little Capricedreams."

I look down at her. The pop star. The icon. The survivor. And in this moment, just a woman with chapped lips and tired eyes, falling asleep to the sound of my heartbeat and the Dutch wind worrying the eaves.

That look is a gift I will never be able to repay.

She is tired. I see it in the set of her shoulders, the way they slump just slightly, even now, even here. She has been tired for twenty years. But the exhaustion here is different. It is not the frantic, wired fatigue of performance and survival. It is the heavy, honest tiredness of a long bath, of a meal cooked by someone else’s hands, of a room where no one expects anything from her except her presence.