The summer deepened. The days grew warmer, the cicadas louder, and Emma's walls began to crumble.
She and Luca began to share more—meals, memories, silences that said more than words. He showed her how to press olives the traditional way. She read him fragments of her writing by candlelight. Every moment stretched longer than it should, sweeter than it ought to be.
And still, they didn't speak of the past—not fully.
One evening, beneath the olive tree where they'd first met, Luca brought two glasses of homemade wine. The sunset bled orange and rose through the trees.
"I want to show you something," he said.
He led her into a small stone chapel on the edge of the grove. Inside, vines had grown through cracks in the wall. There was no altar, just candles and a single wooden bench.
"My brother, Matteo, was married here," Luca said. "Five years ago."
Emma sat quietly.
"He died the next spring. Carriage accident. I was supposed to be with him that day. I wasn't."
"I'm so sorry."
Luca shrugged, but there was a tightness in his jaw. "After he died, I tried to leave this place. I hated it. The groves, the chapel… even the trees."
He looked at her.
"And then you came. Like something pulled you here."
Emma swallowed. "Maybe it did."
They sat in silence. The grief between them wasn't loud—it was soft, steady, like the sound of waves at night.
Then, Emma took his hand.
"My fiancé's name was James," she said. "He died of cancer last year. I stopped writing after that. I stopped… everything."
Luca held her hand tighter. "And now?"
She smiled, a little sad. "Now I'm writing again."
That night, as the stars blinked into the sky, Luca kissed her.
It was slow. Gentle. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to get it right.
And Emma, for the first time in a long time, let herself fall.
The next morning, she woke alone in the cottage. Sunlight painted golden bars across her bed. Her lips still tingled from the kiss, her heart both full and afraid.
Then came a knock.
A boy stood at the door with a letter.
"For you," he said.
Emma took it, heart pounding.
Inside was a simple note, written in strong, familiar handwriting:
"Come to the grove. —L"
But when she arrived, Luca wasn't there.
Only Nonna Rosa was waiting.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Luca's gone."