The next morning, the rain had softened to a whisper against the rooftops of San Loreno. The air smelled of wet earth and citrus leaves, and the village—tucked between the sea and the hills—seemed to breathe in peace after a sleepless night.
Inside the Martin tavern, the wooden tables were still damp from the storm's breath. Sofia wiped them down one by one, her fingers moving slowly, distractedly. She could still hear his voice—low, hesitant—echoing in her mind.
Marco.
That was the name he'd given. Nothing more.
He had slept in the storeroom behind the kitchen, where her father kept the barrels of wine and the crates of lemons for the summer drinks. Her father, Gianni Martin, had not been happy about taking in a stranger, but Sofia had seen something in Marco's eyes that silenced her doubts—a loneliness that mirrored her own.
Now, as she worked, she heard the soft creak of the back door. Marco stepped out, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, his dark hair still damp from washing. In the morning light, he looked different—less like a stranger and more like a man caught between two worlds.
"Good morning, Signorina," he said, voice rough from sleep.
Sofia's hands froze on the cloth. "You don't need to call me that. Just Sofia."
He smiled faintly, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then… good morning, Sofia."
Her father watched them from behind the counter, his brow furrowed. "You're leaving today?" he asked Marco, not unkindly but not warmly either.
Marco hesitated. "If there's work to be done, I'd stay a day or two more. I can fix the shutters. The storm pulled them loose."
Gianni grunted, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and muttered, "Work is never turned away in this house."
Sofia shot Marco a grateful glance. He caught it—then quickly looked away.
For the next few hours, they worked side by side. Marco climbed ladders and hammered nails; Sofia fetched tools and steady hands. The rhythm between them was quiet but sure, each unspoken word filling the space like sunlight breaking through rainclouds.
At noon, as they rested near the stone wall behind the tavern, Sofia finally asked, "Where will you go after this?"
Marco's gaze drifted toward the hills. "North, maybe. Toward Genoa. There's always work there."
"But you don't look like a man who belongs on the road."
He turned to her then, eyes dark and unreadable. "And what kind of man do I look like?"
Sofia opened her mouth—then closed it. She didn't know how to answer. She only knew that when he looked at her, her heartbeat changed its rhythm.
"I should go," he said softly. "Before your father begins to wonder why the rain stopped but I didn't."
"Then go," she whispered. "But don't disappear."
He hesitated—then took her hand gently, the way one might touch something sacred. "Nothing disappears," he said. "Not really. Some things just wait to be found again."
He released her hand, turned, and walked down the muddy path toward the road that led out of San Loreno.
Sofia stood there until the rain began again—soft, almost tender—and she whispered his name into the mist as though the wind might carry it after him.
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