The days passed slowly in Monteverde, each morning beginning with the smell of bread from the bakery and the hum of bees in the olive groves. Emma settled into the rhythm easily—writing in the mornings, exploring in the afternoons, and returning home with sun-kissed skin and ink-stained fingers.
But she kept finding herself at the grove. Or maybe, she kept finding Luca there.
Sometimes he was working. Sometimes resting beneath the trees, his shirt tossed over a branch, his laugh echoing through the quiet hills. And each time she passed, he found a reason to speak to her.
"Do you write love stories?" he asked one afternoon.
"Not usually."
"That's a shame. This place deserves one."
Emma smiled. "Maybe you should write it."
"I'm a farmer," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Not a poet."
"Same thing, really."
He laughed. And she felt something loosen in her chest.
A week later, she was invited to Nonna Rosa's house for dinner. Luca was there, along with half the village it seemed—cousins, neighbors, even the priest. The food was endless, the wine strong, and the air full of music.
Emma watched Luca from across the table. He moved with ease, laughing with his uncle, helping Nonna with the dishes, holding a baby on his hip like it was nothing.
He caught her staring and raised an eyebrow. She looked away, cheeks warm.
Later that night, as the guests wandered home, Emma and Luca lingered on the terrace.
"That was… overwhelming," she said, sipping wine.
"It's how we love," Luca replied. "Loud and all at once."
He turned toward her, suddenly serious. "But you—you're different. You hold things in."
Emma stiffened. "You don't know me."
"No," he said softly. "But I'd like to."
The silence between them was heavy. She wanted to trust him, to lean in. But part of her stayed guarded.
"I lost someone," she said, surprising even herself. "Last year."
Luca didn't ask who.
He just nodded.
"So did I."
They stood side by side, two people carrying quiet grief in a loud world. And for the first time in months, Emma didn't feel so alone.