Marco let out a quiet breath, his thumb moving again to his gallery. To a folder with her name on it. He opened it.
Photos filled the screen—small moments, stolen ones. Valentina laughing, caught mid-motion. Looking away from the camera. Looking straight into it. Unaware. Aware. Soft. Bright.
"What did you think was going to happen?" he muttered quietly.
That she would just exist there—untouched, waiting? That he could love her silently, indefinitely?
Marco didn't usually let himself linger on those photos. That was the rule he had set early on. Keep them there if you must. A private archive. A weak indulgence. But never open it too long. Never stare too hard. Never let it become what it wanted to become.
The countryside outside looked almost unchanged from the last time he had been here—endless stretches of green and gold, old stone structures half-swallowed by time, sunlight spilling across everything.
