“And if I’m still in it?”
Elena had looked at her daughter for a moment with eyes that were not unkind but were entirely, finally, somewhere else.
“Then you need to decide,” she had said quietly, “whether you want to stay there or whether you want a life.”
She had turned back to her wine.
Valentina had realized then that she was merely a remnant of a chapter her mother had closed. She had gone upstairs and drawn dresses until dawn, creating a world where she could control the shape of things.
She returned to the present, her fingers tracing the letters of her father’s name one last time.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said, her voice steady with a grim, tired resolve. “I always do.”
She stood, smoothed her dress, and turned toward the gate. The path felt a little steadier under her feet
