San Teodoro rose from the square like something carved out of thunder- stone ribcage, aching spire, a rose window that caught the early sun and broke it into a thousand carefully arranged wounds. The bells had stopped. The pigeons kept their opinions to themselves. And yet the air rang, as if the city were waiting for the right sentence to change its mind.
Emilia took the steps without hurrying. Black, but not mourning; a coat that moved like a blade. Rafael kept pace half a step to her left, suit cut to war, eyes taking angles the way some men took air. Nora peeled off a minute earlier to the northern transept with a satchel and a throat mic- choir loft, sightlines, comms looped to a three-minute delay.
Inside, the nave breathed its old, cool breath. Incense ghosts still lingered from d
