I come back to myself as if a hand lifts my face from still water. The roar of old summers, the porch swing, the lemon‑bright kitchen—those are memories, and I set them back where they belong. Cold air beads on my lips. Pitch smoke burns my throat. Rope bites my wrists. I am not in a villa. I am at the cliff again, above the black mouth of the ravine, and the night is counting.
I do not speak. I breathe. I let the present seat itself around me like armor put on correctly at last.
Joanna hangs to my right, hair caught against her cheek, breath hiccuping prettily as if fear has been coached to look graceful. Albert idles near the sapling that anchors our ropes, knife turning lazy circles in his gloved hand. His men lounge like shadows. Opposite us, the line of pines splits with the soft vi
