It rained all night. Not a decent, head-on rain, but a kind of damp breathing that seeped through the cracks in the balcony and got into my bones. The stone is still dripping. And me, sleepless, without remorse, just that quiet restlessness of someone who doesn't know if they survived the night or simply didn't die enough.

Yesterday, at the table, the silence was thicker than the wine. Francesca spoke little. Her eyes, always a bit clouded, searched for something in me as if looking for a fla...