The days after Marco's departure fell like soft rain over San Loreno — steady, endless, and full of memory.
Sofia worked as always, serving wine and bread to travelers, polishing the glasses until they shone like mirrors. But each time the bell above the tavern door rang, her heart gave a small leap — hoping, then breaking, when it wasn't him.
At night, she would stand by the window in her small upstairs room, staring out at the dark sea. The same sea that carried men away and never brought them back.
Her father noticed her silence but said nothing. Gianni Martin had lived long enough to know that love and grief speak in the same language — quiet, heavy, and beyond repair.
One afternoon, as spring pressed its warmth into the cobbled streets, a messenger arrived on horseback. He wore the brown uniform of the Genoese courier service and carried a leather satchel across his shoulder.
"For Miss Sofia Martin," he said, handing her a small, weathered envelope.
Her hands trembled. There was no return address — only her name, written in a hand she knew too well.
She rushed upstairs and closed the door before opening it. Inside was a folded piece of paper, smelling faintly of salt and smoke.
> Sofia,
If you are reading this, it means I could not return. Not yet. There are things I must face, and debts I must pay — not with money, but with truth.
You once asked what kind of man I am. The answer is one who has lied, but only to protect what he loves. If fate is kind, I will find my way back to San Loreno. Until then, remember me not as a stranger, but as the man who found light in your kindness.
— M.
Sofia pressed the letter to her chest, her eyes stinging.
Downstairs, her father called for her, but she couldn't move. She felt both joy and fear — joy that he remembered her, fear that the world beyond their village was pulling him into darkness.
That night, unable to sleep, she slipped out of the house and walked toward the cliffs that overlooked the sea. The moon hung low, silver and heavy, lighting the waves below.
She imagined him somewhere beyond the horizon — maybe in Genoa, maybe farther. A man with secrets, walking streets she'd never seen.
And then, faintly, she heard it — music. A violin, distant but real, rising from the harbor below. The melody was soft and mournful, echoing the song her mother used to hum before she died.
Sofia followed the sound down the narrow steps toward the dock. There, beneath a flickering lantern, stood an old blind violinist, playing to no one but the sea.
She stood listening until the last note faded. The old man turned his head slightly, as if sensing her.
"You've lost someone," he said quietly.
Sofia hesitated. "Yes… but I don't know if he's gone forever."
The man smiled. "Then he isn't lost. The sea only keeps what it needs — it returns what belongs."
Sofia thanked him softly and began the long walk home. She didn't know if the words were true, but as she looked up at the glowing horizon, she made herself a promise:
She would not wait forever. If Marco couldn't return to her, she would find her own path — even if it led into his world.
The next morning, she packed a small bag, kissed her father goodbye, and boarded the carriage bound for Genoa.
The rain began again as the wheels turned, and for the first time since he left, she smiled.
Because love, she realized, was not about waiting.
It was about moving — even through the storm.
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