"Nonnina…" Marco began, then stopped.
Luca's throat moved. Marco looked down at the concrete floor, searching for the right words and finding none. What did a man say about a woman like her? That she was kind? Terrifying?
"She was a great woman," Marco said finally.
Luca shut his eyes.
"She…" Marco drew in a shaky breath and looked away. "I'm gonna miss her."
Whatever thin thread Luca had used to keep himself together snapped. His face twisted once, violently, like he was trying to swallow the grief back down. Then the sound came out of him—raw, broken, ugly.
He cried. No, he bawled. He turned onto his side, one hand pressed over his face. His shoulders shook. His breath broke apart. Every sob seemed dragged out of the deepest part of him. He had known someday she would leave him. She was old. She had lived many lives inside one body.
But knowing was useless. Knowing did not prepare him for this. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready at all.
