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She’s smaller now—frailer than I remember. Her body wrapped tightly in the cloak, her hair a mess of silver and black coiled low beneath her scarf. But her eyes… those haven’t aged a day.

I’d been a younger man when she arrived at this parish all those years ago— she was in her late thirties restless, buried under sin. She’d walked into Mass with shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, a woman trying not to be seen. She was ashamed of who she was, ashamed of the road that brought her there.

And I had been… intrigued.

There was something about the way she moved—like everything in her wanted to disappear, but her soul refused. That contradiction stirred something in me.

I’d loved her, in my own way. Quietly. Secretly.

Looking back, I wish I took the chance but she would never have loved me back.

She glares at the cigarette between my fingers.

“You’re disgusting,” she says.

I take another drag and blow the smoke slowly toward the sky.

She doesn’t wait for pleasantries.

“I won’t waste your time,” she says coldly. “I came to tell you I’m taking the money.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What money?”

“The trust,” she snaps. “The one Lena and Vasco left for the child.”

I go still.

She continues, voice clipped. “The bank won’t release it without your signature. I’m giving you notice—I’ll be collecting it tomorrow.”

I nod once. “Fine.”

She turns, tugging the cloak tighter around her body, ready to leave.

But I can’t stop myself.

“They’ve come for her,” I say. “It was only a matter of time.”

She pauses.

“The child was doomed from the day she was born,” I murmur. “She was never meant to stay in your world. They’re taking her to where she belongs.”

She whirls around, eyes blazing.

“She is my child,” she spits. “She is mine.”

I shake my head slowly. “Saying it yourself doesn’t make it true. What are you planning, Carmela?”

She smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Give me some credit, Romani. I’m no fool.”

I step forward and reach for her hands. Her skin is cold beneath my fingers, but I hold on, let my thumb brush lightly over her knuckles.

“We can still make something of ourselves,” I whisper. “Carmela…”

Her eyes narrow. My meaning lingers in the air.

She yanks her hands free like I’ve burned her.

“Sei un pezzo di merda senza vergogna.”