Tortora pulled her hand free. “The fever ran its course. I just kept people alive long enough for that to happen.”
She looked at him. The salt wind had carved lines around his eyes, but they were still kind. For the first time in years, Tortora felt something other than truth and duty. She felt the small, dangerous flutter of wanting. tortora
“I’m afraid of watching another person leave.” Tortora pulled her hand free
Weeks later, a package appeared on her doorstep: a wooden box, no note. Inside lay a small carving—a dove, wings half-open, its body rough and unfinished. But the eyes. The carver had given it knowing eyes, the kind that had seen fever and salt and a woman who refused to call herself good. The salt wind had carved lines around his
She shook her head. “A dove doesn’t save the storm. It just rides it out.”
Tortora had never liked her name. In the old language, it meant dove, a thing of softness and sky. But Tortora was a woman built of river stones and hawthorn branches—angular, stubborn, and far too heavy for flight.
Enzo left the next morning. He didn’t say goodbye. Tortora didn’t expect him to.