The "Open" sign on the door of Caffè Aurora didn’t just signal business anymore; it felt like a flag of truce.
Six months had passed since the night the lighthouse burned. In Porto Vento, time had a way of smoothing over scars with the salt and the sun. The military base remained, but the checkpoints were leaner, the soldiers less prone to the heavy-handed arrogance of General Vance’s era. The General himself was a fading headline, buried under the weight of the "Phase Three" files Giulia had meticulously curated.
Giulia adjusted the collar of her new apron—white, linen, and devoid of the restrictive tailoring of her old uniform. She wasn't just the girl who stayed anymore. She was the woman who owned the ground.
"You’re staring at the horizon again," a voice rumbled from the corner tab
