On the opening day of the tasting, new buds had just begun to emerge across the vineyard.
Wine merchants from all over the neighboring countries filled the long tables. My parents, our winemaker, and every worker who had helped restore the estate stood behind me.
The first bottle of the vintage sat at the center of the main table.
The obsidian stopper gleamed softly in the bottle's neck.
Before the ceremony began, my assistant told me a Mr. Moretti was waiting outside.
Dante stood alone beneath the grape arbor.
"I'm not here to ask you to take me back."
He drew the faded red cord from his pocket. I had braided it for him when we were 16, and he had worn it all these years.
"I only wanted to return this and tell you in person that I won't disturb you again."
I did not take it.
"It
